Burn Like Cold Iron
by Scylla's revenge
Summary: A shy, eccentric violinist named Bee is dragged into a mythical world she knows nothing about, and finds herself as a pawn in a game of political intrigue and war unlike anything she's ever imagined. Will she ever find her way home? Unusual 10th Walker plot. Rated T for occasional language/violence.
1. Prologue

This is the prologue to a girl-falls-into-Middle-Earth story I'm writing. I'm trying to make it as un-cliched as possible, and as well-written and interesting as I can, so I won't be updating this until a good chunk more of it is written. Still, any feedback or constructive criticism on the prologue would be welcome! Let me know if there's an audience for this, and if you want to know what happens next!

Also, this story will attempt to subvert some of the common stereotypes that go hand-in-hand with this kind of fic. That's not to say those stereotypes can't be done well, or can't be enjoyable—I happen to like a lot of them! But I'm going to try not to feature them here. So if, at any point, you think you know where this story is going to go...I can almost guarantee you'll be wrong. I really hope you like this story, and don't forget to let me know what you think!

* * *

My greatest adventure didn't begin until I was twenty-four years old. That is the story I'll be recounting here, to the best of my ability.

However, I've had dealings with magic from a very young age—even if no one ever believed me.

My name is Beatrice Smith, and this is my story, which all began with the Ent-wives.

* * *

Prologue

I bit back a scream of excitement as I breathed in the smell of pine trees and fresh mountain air.

I could still hardly believe it. My family and I were on a summer camping trip in Alpine National Park, in Montana. That's right, Montana. My eight-year-old brain could barely comprehend how far we were from our home in Texas, and I was so excited I felt ready to burst.

Groaning with impatience, I tapped my plastic water canteen against my leg as I waited for my parents to finish getting ready for our big hike.

"Come on, Daddy," I exclaimed, stamping my light-up Wonder Woman tennis shoes on the gravel. "Let's go already!"

My dad frowned. "Just a sec, honey," he said. "I'll need to speak to one of the park rangers about our guided hike this afternoon. Think you can wait here for a few minutes? Your mom'll be back from the car in a bit."

"Of course I can, Daddy. I'm not a baby," I retorted. It was true—I was eight now, and desperate to prove to my parents how mature I was. Camping in a national park was the perfect opportunity. I straightened my shoulders, adjusting my over-large backpack, filled with camping supplies and Junior National Park Ranger pamphlets.

My dad smiled down at me. "Thanks a lot, Bee. Just stay here outside the visitor's center, and I'll be right back."

"Okay." I watched my dad jog off and wave down a park ranger. Shrugging, I turned away to observe some of the other tourists.

There were lots of families, like mine, and huge groups of tourists from other countries. Many were just from other states like us, but others had accents or spoke languages I had never heard of before. It was fascinating. Absently, I wandered away from the visitor's center entrance as I watched them all.

"Hey, so I picked you these flowers." I turned as I heard a man—British, maybe?—clearly just back from a hike, brandishing a handful of ragged wildflowers at his girlfriend.

"Aw, baby, you shouldn't have, they're so pretty!"

My jaw clenched. Oh, no, they didn't. I scowled, putting my eight-year-old hands on my hips as I marched up to the pair of them.

"You really shouldn't have, you know," I scolded the man, who raised an eyebrow at me over his too-big sunglasses. "It's illegal to pick the flowers here, the national park ranger said so."

The man scoffed, while the woman just chuckled. "Well, aren't you a cutie?" she asked, bending to ruffle my hair.

I stepped back, glaring up at them. "I mean it. It's bad for the environment!" I protested. "It takes years for the plants to grow back here! Didn't you read the exhibits in the…"

But the couple had already started walking away, the woman pressing the wildflowers to her nose and sniffing deeply.

"…in the visitor's center?" I finished lamely. Those meanies. I was trying to be mature and grown-up, but I guess it hadn't worked too well.

"Hey, look! Who knew chipmunks liked Doritos, huh?"

"Dude, that is hilarious!"

What? My hands balled into fists, as I whirled around, following the voices farther away through the entrance to one of the hiking paths.

"You're feeding the wildlife?" I exclaimed, facing down a group of teenagers huddled around a chipmunk at a fork in the trail. "You're feeding them Doritos?"

"Uh…yeah," one of the girls said, looking annoyed. "It's cute. So?"

I marched up to them, folding my arms angrily. "If you keep doing that, they'll die in the winter because they won't be able to find food for themselves!"

"Ugh…look, just calm down, kid," a boy snapped, clutching the bag of Doritos to his chest protectively. "Why don't you go back and find your mommy and daddy?"

I glared at him, tears welling in my eyes as I tried to find the words to properly express the depths of his crime.

The chipmunk, however, seemed to have gotten impatient with his feeders, and leapt onto the boy's chest, scrabbling for the Doritos bag.

"Ah! Ew, get it off me!" the boy screamed, dropping the bag and jumping back.

He and his friends panicked as they tried to shoo the chipmunk away, some of them using words I knew my parents wouldn't approve of as they pushed and yelled at each other.

In the resulting scuffle, I saw the chipmunk dart away from them, scrabbling and stumbling on the gravel pathway before disappearing into the trees.

"You hurt him!" I shrieked at the teenagers, before dashing off the path in pursuit. I had to find the chipmunk and make sure it was okay, I just had to, I thought as I pushed past tree branches and stumbled over roots and shrubs, scanning the ground for signs of the poor thing.

I gulped nervously as I ran. I was breaking the rules now, just like those horrible teenagers and that annoying couple near the visitor's center. Tourists weren't supposed to leave the path—they could crush the native plant life, create litter, run into wolves or grizzly bears…

My pace slowed as I thought about that. I paused, suddenly wondering how far I'd run. I looked around.

I was lost.

Thoughts of the chipmunk flew from my mind as I spun around, looking desperately for signs of civilization.

"Hello?" I yelled. My voice was muffled against the trees, which were thicker here than they had been by the trail. I must've run farther than I thought. "Mom? Dad?"

The sound of snapping twigs and rustling leaves made me jump—but there was no one around me.

I couldn't even remember which way I'd been running. Picking a direction at random, I set off, tears stinging in my eyes as I thought about hungry wolves and bears and what would happen when my parents found out I'd left the visitor's center. I'd never be a junior parks ranger now; I'd broken the rules and left the path—

"Ow!" An acorn had fallen on my head, and I paused to at the branches above me. "You mean trees!"

As if in response, the trees around me shook violently, and I threw my hands up to protect myself as a shower of pinecones and needles rained down onto my head. "Ow!"

That was weird, I thought angrily. The branches continued to shake and wave around me. It must be really windy up above me, I decided. There was certainly no wind down on the ground where I was.

I wiped at my nose, trying to stay calm as I went. So far nothing looked familiar—the trees were denser here than they'd been before. In fact, it was getting hard to walk without tripping over a root or running into a branch. Was I going in the wrong direction? I hesitated now, and turned around to start going the other way again.

But no, that couldn't be right! The trees behind me were so thick now that there was practically no room for me to walk between their trunks. But I had just been walking there, hadn't I?

"What's going on?" I said tearfully, jumping again at the sound of snapping twigs, louder this time. A low, earthy sort of groaning rose up around me—it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, and I crouched low to the ground, huddling over my red backpack. "Hello?"

The trees were moving, I realized.

I could see it now—the trunks were inching towards me, their branches bending low over me and blocking out the sunlight, and the groaning sound was getting louder. I burst into tears.

"Stop it!" I cried, burying my face in my arms. "You're scaring me!"

The groaning paused for a long moment, then changed somehow—it was more creaking and crackling, and—and—was it a voice?

"Hello?" I said again.

This time I recognized words in the strange groaning sounds. "You were looking for her," it said slowly.

Fearfully, I opened my eyes and looked up to see one of the trees—was it a tree? It looked so strange now—right in front of me, one of its long branches extending down near my face. I flinched, until I looked closer. Balancing on the branch's leaves was the chipmunk I'd been following.

"You were looking for her," the voice said again—the words were unbearably low, plodding, creaking. It took me a long moment to realize it was the tree that had spoken.

"You're a talking tree," I whispered. I was stunned.

"I am no tree…just as you are no chipmunk, _búrarum_ ," the tree croaked, and I looked up and saw a face in the trunk—the strangest face I had ever seen. It looked like an ogre from one of my fairy tale books, maybe, or something a caveman might have carved onto a stone.

The branch reaching down towards me, I realized, was more like an arm—a second arm was clutched around the creature's body, and the tree stump was divided in two, like a pair of scraggly legs. The tree's branches were thick with yellow apples, which ringed its face almost like a mane of wild hair.

"What...what are you, then?" I said hoarsely. "I don't believe in trolls, you know."

"Trolls!" The creature repeated, straightening suddenly, and one of the trees behind me creaked violently as a shower of acorns hailed down onto my head. At the sudden movement, the chipmunk scurried up the creature's arm and out of sight. " _Brm hoom_ , there are no trolls here. Only Men. No elves...no dwarves..."

"I know that," I interrupted defensively. "They don't exist."

"...no wizards...and no Ents," the thing continued as if I hadn't spoken, bending down until its strange head was only feet from mine. "I am an Ent-wife."

"What's an Ent-wife?"

The Ent-wife shook her craggly head. I saw the chipmunk scurrying about between the branches around her face. "Ent the earthborn, old as mountains, that is how the list went. Have you not learned such a list yourself?"

"No."

" _Búrarum_ , it is a list for all the living creatures of the world. Eldest of all, the elf-children; Dwarf the delver, dark are his houses; Ent the earthborn, old as mountains; Man the mortal, master of horses...ah, but here, Man is master of much more than that, hmm..."

I stared at the Ent-wife. "But elves and dwarves don't exist. Don't try to trick me. I'm not a baby, I know they're made up!"

The Ent-wife seemed to glare down at me. "You are very hasty, hmm _brr-hoom_...and you are quite right, in fact...Here, there are only Men…only Men, and beasts, and me, Ent-wife."

"Are…are you all Ent-wives?" I asked, looking around at the wild trees surrounding me.

The creature straightened up sadly. "I am the last Ent-wife," she said, ever so slowly. "I have awoken many of these trees as much as I am able...alas, _búrarum_ , there is no magic to be found in this strange world."

"I know that too," I interrupted again. "Magic isn't real. I even..." My eyes darted back and forth conspiratorially. "I even know _Santa Claus_ isn't real."

"Where I am from, young human...magic is in everything. And even there, the Ents' power wanes," she said. "And here? I grow weary...day by day...I have become too tree-ish, _brm hoom-hmm_...I have stopped traversing these woods, as I once did. I prefer to remain here...rooted by the little streams, growing my apples...and watching over the creatures...of this...strange...land..."

As she spoke, her voice began to trail off, the words becoming harder to decipher amongst the groaning and creaking, until her last sentence was swallowed up by a gust of wind in a _boom-hoom_ sound.

"Hello?" I called, afraid. "Hello? Ent-wife?"

A long moment passed in silence. Suddenly, the Ent-wife shook her head, as though waking up from a deep sleep. "You are still here, young human. _Hoom-boom_...a strange being you are, indeed...though your people are cruel, _brm, hoom_ , and care not for woods golden and green...They have killed my sisters, hmm...and I am the last, now, to hold the ancient memories of Middle Earth..."

"What are you talking about?" I interrupted, confused, but desperate to hear the Ent-wife say more.

"Ah, not so hasty, now, _bar-hoom_ ," she said, with a great creaking sigh as though she were about to fall asleep.

"I'm sorry," I said, before I remembered my southern manners. "Uh...I mean, I'm sorry, ma'am."

The Ent-wife gave a soft laugh, and did not speak for a long moment. I waited, staring at her. "When winter comes, and singing ends...when darkness falls at last..." I blinked, suddenly realizing that the Ent-wife was singing, as soft as rustling leaves.

The Ent-wife's voice was so quiet I could barely hear the words, and she paused for several minutes between lines, as though she'd forgotten how they went. "When broken is the barren bough, and light and labor past...I'll look for thee, and wait for thee, until we meet again...together we will take the road beneath the bitter rain."

"That was real pretty," I said politely. The words had made me shudder, and now my voice sounded too loud and harsh against the tree trunks in the forest.

" _Búrarum_...There are more lines than that...and yet I cannot remember them," the Ent-wife admitted, her voice slower and softer than ever. "I am tired...I am old, now...older than Elves, and wizards...rivers, and mountains. I confess...I have forgotten them all. Even the face of my dear Fangorn...never to meet again...Yes, _brm...hoom_...I am ready to sleep...and I doubt...I...shall...wake..."

The creature's head bowed low. Her mossy eyes creaked shut.

"Wait!" I cried. "What do you mean?" She didn't answer. "Hello?" I yelled. "Please, wake up! I'm still lost!"

Several minutes passed, and finally, with a creak of her head, the Ent-wife opened her eyes again and looked down at me. " _Hoom brm-hmm_ , your people are up that way," she croaked, pointing one of its branch-fingers behind me. The chipmunk scurried down its arm and stopped at the tip of the Ent-wife's hand, staring at me. Its nose twitched, and I giggled.

"Your friend here is unharmed," the Ent-wife added slowly. "You were good to care for her...I do not remember, yet I feel...that my kind would have been fond of you... _brm-hoom_...You would have...been named...tree-friend...if my kind...were still...in...bloom." Her branches seemed to wilt, and her lichen-green eyes slipped shut. " _Búrarum_ , now...I shall sleep...Yes, I yield...at last...and I say...his…land...is...best."

The Ent-wife fell silent again, and I stared at her, willing her to wake up again. "Ent-wife?" I asked. "Ent-wife! Hello? Wait!"

Five long minutes passed in silence, and I didn't move a muscle.

Finally, creakily, the Ent-wife's eyes opened one last time.

"What's your name?" I asked desperately.

The Ent-wife gave a weary laugh, or maybe it was just the wind rustling in her leaves. "...Always...so hasty...young...one..." she whispered. Her voice sounded far away. "But I fear...I...do not...now...re...mem... _bú...ra...rum..._ "

Her eyes slipped shut, and I knew, somehow, that they would not open again.

"Ent-wife? Wait! Ent-wife!" I cried.

The only reply I received was a gusty sort of sigh, the wind rippling through her branches. Already she looked less like a troll, and more like an ordinary tree. Her legs looked more like an ordinary trunk, her face was blending in to the rough bark, and it was hard to imagine that the apples in her branches had ever resembled a head of hair.

Suddenly realizing how cold I was, I turned back the way the creature had pointed. "Thank you, Ent-wife," I said. She didn't answer. I hurried away, my eyes full of tears.

I wept as I walked, my hands balled into fists against my eyes, although I couldn't put into words what was wrong.

I followed the path that the Ent-wife had pointed out for me, and before long I was back on the trail where the teenagers had been feeding the wildlife. Thankfully, they were nowhere to be seen now.

I ran back to the entrance of the visitor's center, my canteen swinging wildly on my backpack strap, and suddenly I was enveloped in a hug.

"Bee! There you are, thank goodness, we were so worried!" My mom looked frantic. "Where were you? Oh, we found her, dear!" she called over her shoulder, and I saw my dad talking to one of the park rangers worriedly.

"She's here? Oh thank goodness—"

Another hug. "I'm sorry," I managed to say, before the lecturing began.

"What were you thinking—?"

"—and we were only gone for a minute!"

"What if something had happened-?"

"You know better than to—"

I couldn't let them continue—I had too many questions. "What are Ent-wives?" I demanded.

My parents looked stunned. "Wh—what?"

"Ent-wives!" I exclaimed. "I saw one. In the forest. It helped me find my way home."

My dad pressed a hand against his forehead. "Not now, Bee—"

"I mean it! I _saw_ one, and she was so sad and sleepy and she had apples in her hair—"

"Bee!" my mom snapped. "That is enough. We had a hike planned for this afternoon, and now I'm not sure if that's the best idea."

I gaped in horror, sobering up at once. "No! I'll be good! I promise! I'm sorry I ran off, really. I'll be good. Let's go on the hike. Please!"

My parents finally conceded, and the rest of the day passed as normally as ever. Despite my best searching, I didn't see a single tree behaving unusually. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary. The majestic beauty of the national park seemed dull, somehow...dimmer than before, and I couldn't help but burst into tears at dinner, even though I knew the Ent-wife wasn't dead, not really. But she wasn't an Ent-wife anymore...that much I knew, even though I didn't think I understood what an Ent-wife was in the first place.

Even back at home, everything was normal. No one I talked to had ever seen or heard of talking trees, and I never saw another one. Maybe the Ent-wife had been right—she was the only one left. That thought always made me sad.

My parents were quick to dismiss the encounter as an eight-year-old's invention, and, reluctant though I was to admit it, over the years I finally came to agree with them.

By the time I was an adult, I had accepted that my meeting with the last Ent-wife was nothing more than a faded daydream.

After all, even the creature from my daydream had agreed: magic wasn't real here, and neither was Santa Claus, or elves, or dwarves, or wizards...or even Ent-wives.


	2. Chapter 1

At long last, here is Chapter 1! I have several more written and a very vague plot in the works, so expect slow but sure updates to this story in the not-too-distant future. And thank you to everyone who reviewed the prologue and favorited or followed this story. It means a lot and I really want to hear your thoughts about this new chapter! Bee is all grown up now and ready to have as un-cliched an adventure as possible. This is a small snippet into her life before her story really gets going, but the little details will play into the story later, I promise. I hope you like it!

Disclaimers: I don't own The Lord of the Rings, or any of the books, movies, or songs that Bee references in this story.

* * *

Chapter 1

There was nothing in the world like rush-hour traffic in Dallas.

I'd been sitting at the same light for at least ten minutes, still only a few blocks from work; I could have screamed with impatience.

"Come on," I muttered to myself, scrolling through the radio stations to pass the time. "There's gotta be something good on..." Bad country music—commercials—mariachi music—conservative talk radio—even worse country music—more commercials— "What's this?" I paused on a news story about the zoo.

"Experts are still baffled by the appearance of this strange creature last week," the voice said, and I cranked the volume up higher, curious. "At first thought to be a wolf, researchers now believe it to be some sort of hybrid—and that's right, you can see it right here at the Dallas Zoo next week, the first of what might just be a brand new species!" _Cool,_ I thought idly. "And remember, folks, if you see any similar creatures, keep your distance! This one has been especially vicious; it's hospitalized three zookeepers and members of animal control so far. It is larger in size than normal wolves, with a longer snout and huge fangs, and our online followers are already calling it the Texas Warg, named after the mythical wolves of—"

Suddenly the muffled notes of Respighi's 'The Pines of Rome' interrupted the news story. My ringtone! I turned the radio volume down and dug around in my purse as I drove, finding my phone just in time. "Hello?"

"Bee!" my friend's voice exclaimed. "How's it going?"

I wedged the phone between my face and shoulder as I drove forward. "Hey, Caroline. I can't really talk, I'm on my way home from work."

"Oh that's right, you have a fancy grown-up job now," she snorted. "You're still coming tonight, right?"

"Of course!" I said, surprised and offended. I wouldn't miss one of our quartet's gigs for the world, and Caroline knew that. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know, you just haven't seemed as enthusiastic about performing lately, that's all." I made a noise of indignation and she laughed. "No offense! I just meant, you're always daydreaming or something when we're at a gig. And you never wanna sit still long enough to practice."

"Is it a crime to be a little restless now and then?" I asked defensively.

"Well, anywho," my friend plowed on, "you better hurry up and get home, before I break down your door to get into the air conditioning."

" _Caroline!"_ I exclaimed. "You're at my apartment already?"

"Mayyybe..." I could practically see her giving a theatrical shrug. "I just thought we could get some practice in, maybe drive over to The Fiddler's Elbow together for the gig. I'd carpool with Nathan, but his bass takes up half of his car, and you know John's car smells like old Taco Bell wrappers."

I made a face. "I guess that's true."

"And speaking of John and Nathan," Caroline added, "I invited them to your place to practice too. Hope that's alright. All four of us can go in one car—I know how much you care about the environment and all."

"Caroline!" I groaned. If everyone came over to my place, I had no doubts about who would end up having to drive everyone to the gig tonight. _Damn it, Caroline…_ I ground my teeth together for a long moment before giving in. "Fine. Just ask me first next time, okay? I'll be at my apartment in five minutes."

"Alright, cool. Just hurry up."

"Yes _ma'am,_ " I snapped, sarcasm my only remaining form of protest.

Her only answer was a loud raspberry before she hung up on me. I tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, rolling my eyes in annoyance.

My friend had been right about one thing—I wasn't too enthusiastic about the gig tonight. Ever since I'd started performing with Caroline, John, and Nathan in back college, we'd been running through the same collection of songs: drinking songs and jigs at Irish pubs, two-step beats at country bars, Canon in D at weddings…I sighed.

It was starting to get downright monotonous, and I'd have dropped out of the quartet entirely, except that this was the only time I really got to play my violin anymore, and the only time I got to hang out with my friends. And, rude as some of them might be, I loved them dearly. I sighed. _Well, nothing quite like bonding over mediocre songs at live music night at a dive bar like The Fiddler's Elbow_ , I thought as I pulled into my apartment complex.

"Five minutes, my ass!" Caroline was waiting for me, hands on her hips. One foot was tapping impatiently against her cello case as she glowered theatrically at me. "It's about time you showed up!"

" _Sorry_ , Caroline, but there's this new-fangled thing called _traffic,_ I don't know if you've heard of it—"

I was cut off by a horn blaring from the parking lot.

"That'll be John," Caroline said unnecessarily, as our second violinist hopped out of his run-down truck and joined us. Nathan, our bassist, was with him, and stopped to heft his bass out of John's truck bed.

"Well, now that we're all here," John said, giving me a lazy one-armed hug, "let's get into the air conditioning before we all die of heatstroke."

"Or worse, before Nathan gets all sweaty like at that outdoor gig last summer," Caroline added with a rude laugh. Nathan turned bright red, sweat already beading on his forehead in the hot sun.

I gave a half-hearted smile as I unlocked my door, still annoyed with all of them for inviting themselves over. Still, nothing was going to stop me from being a gracious hostess. _Damn southern manners._ "Welcome in, guys. Sorry about the mess," I prefaced as we walked inside.

My apartment was never exactly _clean_ even on its best days—the carpet was stained from the past exploits of its previous owner (the less I thought about that, the better), the beige paint on the walls was chipped and peeling, and the lumpy, lime-green sofa in the living room made the whole apartment look vaguely unsettling, no matter how many sensibly-colored throw pillows I covered it with.

The rest of my quartet filed into the apartment, setting their instrument cases on the living room floor. "Ahh, I just _love_ your apartment, Bee," Caroline sighed as she set her cello case on the lime-green sofa.

" _Seriously?_ " I snorted.

"I mean it! Your apartment's great!" she insisted, either ignoring or missing completely the roach scuttling across the carpet in front of her. "I'm still living at home with my parents till I'm done with my master's program. I'd kill for my own place."

"I'd kill to get _out_ of a place like this," John said in a stage whisper to Caroline, and I scowled at him.

"I think it's nice," Nathan said quietly. "Hey, d'you mind if I get some water?"

I smiled gratefully at him. John and Caroline had already migrated to the kitchen, pulling sodas out from my fridge carelessly. Then again, Nathan had always been the politest one in our quartet by a country mile. "Sure thing, Nathan."

"Thanks. Hey, how's your mom doing?"

I shrugged, following him into the kitchen. "Same old, same old," I said. "I'm a little worried about her being lonely, though. She _says_ she's fine," I added, "but she's living outside of West in the middle of nowhere, all by herself, with no one but Bilbo for company—"

"Wait, wait," Caroline interrupted. " _Bilbo?"_

I winced slightly. "Y'know, my old cat."

"You named your cat _Bilbo?"_ she exclaimed, glee in her eyes.

I folded my arms defensively. "I was _seven,_ my favorite book was _The Hobbit,_ don't judge me—"

I broke off as Caroline and John dissolved into laughter, settling back onto the couch in the living room. "Oh, come on…that's almost as bad as Nathan's bass," Caroline crowed.

"What'd you name your bass again?" I asked him.

Nathan turned slightly pink. "Glorfindel," he said.

I chuckled despite myself. "What's a glorfindel?" I asked curiously. "A disease?"

"He's not a disease!" Nathan spluttered, looking deeply offended. "He's a character in _The Lord of the Rings_ , I keep telling you to read them, Bee—"

"Nerds!" John exclaimed from the living room.

I ignored him. "I don't know…" I shrugged. "I couldn't even stay awake for the first movie. Plus, you know, I don't have time for a whole lot of reading right now, with work and all these gigs…"

It was true: I wasn't much of a reader these days. I'd been obsessed with _The Hobbit_ when I was younger, yes, and I did go through a Harry Potter phase in middle school—who didn't? But that was nothing next to Nathan's love of books, which bordered on an obsession.

And speaking of his reading obsession…

"Well, if you don't wanna read it, no pressure," Nathan said casually, turning to dig for something in the pockets of his instrument case. "Aha!" Grinning triumphantly, he pressed a book into my hands.

I examined it. " _The Fellowship of the Ring?"_ I read, laughing. "Why were you carrying this around with you?"

"I always carry a good book with me when I leave the house. It's like having an old friend with you everywhere you go," he said simply. I grinned. That was the kind of thing my dad used to say. It was a long time since I'd thought of books in that way; trust Nathan to make even the most offhand comments sound heartfelt.

I flipped through the pages with new interest. "And you _really_ think I'd like it?"

"Since you liked _The Hobbit,_ yeah," Nathan said. "Besides, when's the last time you read a good book? And music theory books don't count."

I thought for a moment. "Oh! I read this really cool biography a few weeks ago," I recalled, "about the life of Guido Monaco—"

"Who?"

"He invented the modern music staff!" I exclaimed. "I've told you that before!"

"Bee _eee_ ," Caroline interrupted with a groan, "in what world is that interesting? God, y'all are such _nerds!_ "

"You know you're just jealous," Nathan laughed in his quietly self-assured voice. I'd never managed to stick up for myself in quite the same was as Nathan could…It occurred to me suddenly that I used to have quite a bit more of a backbone than I currently did; I shook the thought away uncomfortably.

"Well, I'd be happy to read it, Nathan," I said, tucking the book into a pocket of my violin case. "I'll start it tonight, after the gig."

"The gig!" John exclaimed. "I forgot, we have to practice!"

"We still have some time," I said, checking my phone. "We don't need to be at The Fiddler's Elbow for an hour still."

"Oh, good."

We opened our instrument cases (I smiled slightly at 'Glorfindel' and Nathan grinned back at me), and dug through our binders of music.

"Hold up, what's this?" Caroline demanded, reaching for some papers sticking out of my violin case.

"Hey!" I tried to hold them out of her reach. " _No!_ " She poked me with her bow and I dropped the papers, which she caught eagerly. "That's just some pieces I've been writing, please don't look at them yet, they're not done, please!" I said desperately.

"I didn't know you were writing your own music, Bee," John said, glancing at the papers over Caroline's shoulder. "Hmm, that one piece looks…I don't know, kind of weird."

"Very creative," Nathan added with a supportive smile.

"Yeah, well, thanks," I muttered stiffly, trying to snatch the papers back. I could feel my face burning.

I wasn't very good at writing my own music to begin with, but the piece they were looking at was especially rocky. The notes were plodding and slow, with purposeful creaks and snags from the bowhair on the strings to imitate the sound of a strange unearthly voice, one that I'd never been able to forget even after sixteen years…

"I know it's bad, alright?" I snapped. "But it's _supposed_ to be weird, it's based on a song my imaginary friend sang to me when I was little." At least I'd had the foresight to not write the title, _Ent-wife's Song,_ on the paper; Caroline and John would never have let me hear the end of it.

" _Really?"_ Caroline said. "That's actually pretty cool."

"Uh-huh, _thank_ you," I replied testily, grabbing the papers at last and stuffing them back into my violin case. "Now let's just practice for the gig tonight, okay?"

"Alright then, geez."

Most of the pieces for our gig were quite simple—it was our standard Irish jig set. We ran through them without much trouble. I let my mind wander as we played, my bow moving rather listlessly. My eyes slipped shut.

Somehow, between the notes, I imagined I could hear a voice echoing…I shook my head to clear it, but the voice was still there.

"What was that?" I asked, pausing in my notes.

"What?" John said, looking annoyed at having been stopped in the middle of St Anne's Reel.

"I—sorry, nothing," I muttered. "Thought I heard something, sorry." We continued playing.

I shuddered, feeling unseasonably cold. The voice was still there—as loud as ever, though no one else seemed to notice anything amiss. It was a deep voice, and unsettling, and I couldn't think where it could be coming from. In fact, it was _chanting_ something…

Suddenly my head started pounding and I winced, faltering a bit on the coda of Morrison's Jig. The voice in my head was getting louder. My violin slipped slightly under my jaw. My hand trembled on my bow. _What is that voice? And why does it…why does it_ hurt _so much?_ Finally I couldn't bear it anymore: my bow slipped out of my hand and I doubled over.

"Bee, what's wrong?" Nathan asked, looking panicky. " _Bee?_ "

"I… _ah…_ it's nothing. Just a headache, I think." My vision flared red, then white. I gasped in pain—but that weird chanting voice had stopped, as though it had never happened. Had I imagined it? "Seriously…I'm fine. I just need a minute." There was a wild ringing in my ears; everything felt vaguely fuzzy all of a sudden…

With shaking hands, I set my violin down on the lime-green sofa. "Guys, why don't you head out to the bar? Y'all can start setting up without me. I'm gonna get some food, I think, before I go, I'm feeling pretty faint."

"Well, if you're sure," Caroline said. "Just…take some Advil before you go, alright?" she added. "You don't look so good."

"Aw, thanks," I muttered, rubbing at my temples. My head felt like it was being crushed under an anvil.

The three of them began to pack up their instruments, all looking rather concerned.

"You're sure you're okay, Bee?" Nathan asked me as they made their way to the door. "Caroline's right, you should take some Advil, drink some water or something…"

"Okay, okay," I muttered, opening the door for them to leave. "Wow, what the hell?" I paused, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me. Instead of the usual bright, oppressive sunshine, the parking lot was full of heavy, dense fog. A dark blanket of it covered the cars and trees, and it felt cold— _unseasonably_ cold. I shivered, my head pounding worse than ever. "Be careful driving through all that."

"What d'you mean?" John and Caroline said together.

I raised an eyebrow. Wasn't it obvious? "All that _fog,_ duh. It's a driving hazard. And it's weird, there wasn't a cloud in the sky earlier—"

"Fog?" Nathan repeated, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. "What fog?"

I faltered. "What?"

"I don't know what you're…Bee, are you alright? There's no fog outside. It's perfectly sunny, not a cloud in the sky."

"What do you—?" I stammered, staring out the door. The fog was still there, solid and cold. It was as real as my apartment door, as the sidewalk, as my friends staring at me in growing panic… "Of course there's fog," I demanded, more loudly, as though repeating myself would make it true. "It's gotten all dark and cold out. What, you…you mean you can't see it?" A cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the chilling fog. _What was going on?_ I could feel my blood pulsing painfully behind my eyes. Did this have something to do with my headache?

"Bee…" Nathan's voice was higher-pitched than normal. "Maybe you should just skip the gig tonight?"

"What?" I exclaimed. "No—I'm alright—I'm just…just…" I blinked, hard. I shook my head violently. Nothing changed.

" _Bee?"_ Even John looked freaked out.

"I—It's nothing…I'm fine. Really, I'm fine!" I stammered, hoping none of them saw how scared I suddenly felt. "I'm just tired. You know I haven't been sleeping well lately."

"Well, okay, but I…I don't know, Bee. Only if you're sure."

"Yeah, honest, _I'm fine,"_ I gritted out. I was gritting my teeth so violently from my headache that I thought they might break. I needed a moment to myself, I thought—just a moment, just to catch my breath, maybe to take an Advil. I couldn't _think_ with everyone standing around me like this.

"Alright, just call us if you need anything, okay?"

Still looking bewildered, the three of them walked out to the parking lot. They hadn't walked ten feet before the mist swallowed them up entirely. I closed my door quickly, unnerved.

I leaned heavily against the door, the metal doorknob cool against my trembling arm. My eyes squeezed shut and I breathed deeply; but if anything, that made the headache worse. And when I dared to opened my eyes, I gasped.

My apartment was full of fog, too.

I stepped forward hesitantly, reaching my hand out into the mist. I could barely see my lime-green sofa in front of me.

"What's going on?" I asked—the fog distorted my voice to a muffled squeak. "Hello? _Ow!"_

I'd tripped over my empty violin case, which was still lying open on the carpet. I clutched at it desperately, the way a drowning man might clutch at a life preserver. _Breathe. Just breathe…_ I squeezed my eyes shut again, willing the fog away. Everything would be alright, I was fine, I was okay…

But I _wasn't_ okay, something was happening to me—something was _wrong—_ the fog was getting thicker—surely my skull would split open from this headache—I made a feeble attempt to stand up, but suddenly my limbs wouldn't obey my commands.

I couldn't move, I realized with building horror. I couldn't _move!_

A wrenching pain ripped through my gut, as though I were being speared and dragged along by a fishhook—I screamed, but no sound came out—I couldn't even hear the sound of my own heartbeat anymore.

For a long moment, I was suspended in absolute silence. I was adrift in a sea of white fog, unable to move, unable to speak. Seconds passed—maybe minutes—hours could have fallen by as my panic grew in the silent, motionless void—

Suddenly, the mist began to clear. It was over. I felt my body come back to life; I could move again. Bit by bit, the fog dissipated, and my surroundings came into view—

I bit back a scream.

 _My apartment was gone._


	3. Chapter 2

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed my story! Ten reviews already- I'm really overwhelmed, honestly. It really makes my day to see that there are some people following and enjoying these chapters. Here is the next one- just don't get used to weekly updates any time soon. Unfortunately I've got a lot of real-world responsibilities and I can only procrastinate so much. Don't forget to leave me a review or PM to let me know what y'all think!

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Chapter 2

 _My apartment was gone._

The lime-green sofa, the stained carpet and cluttered coffee table, the walls with chipped paint and crooked posters—they were nowhere to be seen. And in their place was a cavernous room that I had never seen before in my life.

It was gloomy and rather dark, with the smell of smoke and old paper in the air. A weak ray of sunlight trickled down from a high window, casting the whole room in a sickly pallor. Thick swirls of dust caught in the dim light, and I fought the urge to sneeze. I squinted, my eyes having trouble adjusting from the brightness of the strange white fog that had clouded my vision moments ago.

This was far too detailed to be a dream, I decided. But what was happening?

My brain was still struggling to make sense of my surroundings when I heard footsteps: there was a man in the doorway! I scrabbled to my feet, my empty violin case tumbling onto the marble floor.

"Hello?" I said, my voice echoing in the cavernous room. "Where am I?"

The man stepped closer, and I shrank back. As he moved into the dim light I saw that he was wearing _robes_ —honest-to-God Harry Potter robes—and had a long white beard. He opened his arms wide—there was a weird sort of walking stick in his hand—and said something I didn't understand.

"What?" I said, my voice coming out more like a squeak this time. The man repeated himself, his voice deep and his tone mocking, and I realized he was speaking a different language.

There was a smile on his face as he walked towards me, an unsettling mix of intense glee and smug satisfaction. Somehow that look frightened me more than if he had been glowering in rage—something about his face, sallow and hook-nosed, with cold black eyes, didn't seem to be made for smiling.

"I…I don't understand," I protested, feeling unnerved. "Don't you speak English?"

The man ignored me and said something else in his foreign language, his tone triumphant, and gestured to a raised dais in the center of the room that I hadn't noticed before. Something was resting on it—it looked almost like a large black bowling ball. I tried to get a closer look, but the man stepped in front of me. He spoke again, more insistently this time, and closed the rest of the space between us until I was nearly backed against the far wall of the room.

"I-I don't understand you," I repeated shakily, craning my neck to look up at him; he had to be nearly seven feet tall. His invasion of personal space was deeply unnerving. "Just—just _back up,_ and tell me what's going on!"

The man— _Creepy Dumbledore,_ as I decided to name him—didn't answer. Instead, without warning, he rolled back one of the trailing sleeves of his robe and grabbed me by the shoulder.

My heart nearly leapt out of my chest and I tried to jerk away, but the man held me in place and pointed his walking stick at me. _He's going to bludgeon me to death with it,_ I thought wildly. _I'm going to die here in this creepy room, murdered by Creepy Dumbledore with a creepy goddamn walking stick—_

I struggled desperately, but the man merely tapped me on the forehead, muttering more words in his strange language, and released me, alive and un-bludgeoned. I staggered back, colliding with a bookshelf behind me and clutching at the wall to stop my knees from buckling. What was _that_? _Crazy_ Dumbledore might be a more appropriate name, I thought, before the man grabbed me by the shoulder again.

"Speak!" he commanded.

I stared at him in surprise. I understood the word as clear as day, even though I could distinguish the sound of it in my ringing ears: it was decidedly _not_ English.

He shook me roughly. "I told you to _speak!_ "

"Let me go!" I gasped, tugging my shoulder free and staggering away. My words echoed in the room—but they weren't the same—they weren't English _—I wasn't speaking English._ "What…what's happening? Why don't my words sound the same?" My voice came out in a squeak this time, sounding childish and faint.

"It was merely a translation spell," said the man impatiently. "It would do me no good to have brought you all this way only to be stopped by a simple language barrier."

 _All this way?_ "You _kidnapped_ me?" I screamed, my voice shaking desperately. Kidnapped—the word echoed through my brain, making my head pound. I'd been kidnapped, honest-to-God _kidnapped_ , and taken to some ridiculous place…the kidnapper's hideout, for all I knew. Or maybe he was some wealthy eccentric and this was his mansion? Panic rose up in me. Were we even in Dallas anymore?

Crazy Dumbledore stepped towards me again, and I dodged—I dived for my violin case and ran towards the door, digging in the case for my phone as I went. The man didn't seem to be armed, except for his weird stick, so I should be able to make it outside and call for help—

Just as I reached the open door, it slammed shut so forcefully that my hair blew back. I whirled around to see the man holding his walking stick in the air like a giant baton, pointed directly at me. _How did he do that?_ It must have been automated or something, I decided. I pulled on the door's handles with all my might, but they were locked.

"You aren't going anywhere," he said severely. "Not until you answer my questions."

"Your…your _questions?"_ I demanded, my voice shaking as, once again, I heard words come out of my mouth in a different language.

The man had drugged me somehow, there was no doubt about it. That explained all that fog I'd seen in my apartment, the headache, the voices: I was hallucinating before passing out. And that would explain the weird words I was speaking now; it must be an aftereffect of whatever drugs he'd used.

And if it was all true, if I'd really been kidnapped and drugged, then I needed to get out of here and get help— _immediately._

"Okay…I'll tell you what you want to know," I said slowly, keeping eye contact as steadily as I could while digging through my violin case. Crazy Dumbledore spoke again, but I merely nodded distractedly; I'd just pulled my phone out of my case, and _it had no bars_. What was I going to do? _Damn it!_ And the battery was only at fifty percent. I had to get in range of a signal, and quickly, if I wanted to—

Suddenly my phone was knocked out of my hands. " _Hey!"_ I exclaimed, flinching as it landed with a _crack_ on the marble floor. The crazy old man was suddenly towering over me, his black eyes bulging in his bloodless face. Fury was twisting his features inhumanely.

"You will answer my questions!" he roared, his voice ringing unnaturally in the still air, so loud I was surprised the window by the ceiling didn't shatter. "I did not bring you through mist and darkness for nothing. Now, _identify yourself!"_

"M-my name is Beatrice Smith," I said quickly. _Mist and darkness?_ I tried to back away from him, but my legs didn't seem to want to obey. "I'm…I'm a market researcher for a tech company…and, uh, I'm a violinist." With each word, the man seemed to swell with impatience, but I didn't know what else he wanted me to say. "Uh…I'm from Dallas, but I was born in West…I'm twenty-four years old…I majored in business, with a minor in violin performance…"

"What else?" he snapped.

"What _else?_ " I repeated, unable to stop myself. "What, d'you want my social security number too?"

Crazy Dumbledore silenced me with a dark look. "What is this 'tech company' you worked for?" he demanded. "Were you responsible for the creation and manufacture of weaponry? Electric methods of long-distance communication? Or horseless transportation, perhaps?"

I stared at him for a moment, speechless. "I…I studied business. Just _business_! I mostly do research on the changes in our clientele base. I mean…" I felt like I was missing something important. "I'm not an engineer or anything. I've never had anything to do with weapons or, uh, _horseless transportation._ "

"Is that so?" The man sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. He turned away.

"I don't know anything about weapons or mechanics," I insisted. "Please, can't you just let me go home?"

Crazy Dumbledore ignored me. "I have one more question for you, girl." He narrowed his eyes, studying my face closely. "What can you tell me of _The Lord of the Rings?"_

"What?" I was sure I'd misheard him.

" _The Lord of the Rings._ If I am not mistaken, it is a famous tale in your homeland."

His words hung in the air for a long moment as I stared at him. "Are you joking?" I said finally. "Are you…I mean, is this some kind of _prank?_ " The old man stood silently, as if waiting for me to finish. I saw a vein twitch in his jaw. But I didn't care, I'd had enough; my hands were shaking with fury. "You realize this is ridiculous, right?" I demanded, my voice rising hysterically. "You _kidnap_ me to ask me weird questions about _engineering_ and then want me to explain a _fantasy story to you?_ What psych ward did you escape from—"

The man raised his hand for silence and my voice broke off. I tried to speak again, but found that I couldn't make my mouth move properly. "You will find, girl _,_ that I do nothing without reason. Do not question my motives again! Furthermore, you will speak to me with respect, Beatrice Smith, _if you wish to keep your life."_

I froze, my anger shifting to terror in a split second. _If I wish to keep my life?_ Was he serious? Would he really _kill_ me? I took a step back from him, my violin case still wedged under my arm. _Stay calm,_ I told myself. _Breathe. You_ know _he's serious. Just look at him—he certainly_ looks _murderous enough. So don't do anything rash. He won't hurt you if you just answer his stupid questions. Take a deep breath, stay calm, keep him talking, and above all, don't freak out._

I took a deep, calming breath—and abruptly freaked out.

"P-please, just-just let me _go,"_ I begged, bursting into uncontrollable sobs, clutching my violin case to my chest. I was at my wit's end. "I d-d-don't know anything about weapons, or…or _The Lord of the Rings,_ or whatever, I j-just wanna go home, _p-please."_ The scene I was causing must have been pathetic; I didn't care much at the moment, honestly. I could feel my nose running and my eyes puffing up as I gasped for breath between my shuddering sobs. "I…I'm supposed to be p-playing a gig at The Fiddler's Elbow right now, m-m-my friends are gonna be wondering where I am—I s-swear I won't call the police or anything, if you just let me g—"

Without warning, the man swung his walking stick through the air and struck me across the face.

Stars exploded in front of my eyes. I clutched my face numbly, hardly daring to get up from where I'd fallen, hard, on the marble floor. No one had ever hit me like that in my life, and I sat in shock for a moment, not fully registering the pain. Gingerly, I prodded at my nose—it was bloody and hot and felt broken. Horrified, I looked up at the man who had attacked me.

" _Answer me! NOW!"_ The man's eyes were _demonic_. His voice shook the very walls of the room, and I felt the blood freeze in my veins, the tears in my eyes drying instantly. " _Tell me what you know!"_

"I…I don' doh anyding abou' _The Lord of the Rings,"_ I said hurriedly, my voice coming out rough and congested. I sniffled and coughed and wiped at the blood dripping from my nose. "I never read th' books, and I only saw a bit o' th' firs' movie," I added hastily, hoping that would be enough.

"What do you mean by 'movie?'"

I flinched as he folded his arms across his chest. "A _movie,"_ I repeated uncertainly, between more sniffles and coughs. "Y' know, like a story on a television?"

"A television…" he repeated slowly. "Yes, I have seen glimpses of such creations—glass screens on thin boxes, projecting light and color into moving shapes…A _movie,_ then, is a kind of theatrical production displayed on such a device?"

I stared at him. "Uh…I guess?"

"It seems to be no matter: book or 'movie,' the story is in essence the same. Tell me, then: do you know the outcome of this story?"

"The outcome?"

" _Yes_ ," he said impatiently. "Does the Dark Lord Sauron emerge victorious from his war? And what is the role of the great wizard, Saruman the White?" He drew himself up, his pointed chin jutting out.

"Saruman?" I repeated, thinking hard. Why in the world did this freak want to know all this? The name _Saruman_ was vaguely familiar—I knew he was one of the bad guys, at least. I think I'd been awake for that part of the movie—a wizard dressed all in white, with a white staff in his hand…

Oh my God. I stared up at my kidnapper, finally understanding.

 _This guy thought he was Saruman._

A new sense of unease filled me, and I flinched at the waiting look on his skull-like face. "Um," I stammered. "Well, they lose in the end, obviously." I didn't need to see all the movies to know that.

The man barked out a laugh, humorless and cold. "Speak truthfully, child. You cannot be in earnest."

I frowned. "Of course I'm _in earnest,"_ I snapped, mimicking his ridiculous formal tone. "What story actually has the villains win in the end?"

"Ah," he frowned. "So yours is a biased account, I can presume. Riddled with falsehoods and ridiculous notions of the _perseverance_ of Men and Elves…am I correct?"

"Um…I don't know. I guess?"

"Well, how then does the supposed victory of Men come about?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm now. "What circumstances could possibly bring about the Dark Lord's end?"

"I…I don't _know!"_ I exclaimed. I was out of my depth here—Nathan was the _Lord of the Rings_ geek, not me. "Why are you _asking_ me this? I mean, why don't you just read the books and find out yourself? Or, I don't know—can't you just watch the movies? Hell, just _google it!_ " My voice was small, more desperate than angry, but it didn't stop me from clenching my fists and standing up to look the man in the eye. "Why do you even want to know? Who the hell _are_ you, anyway?"

Like a snake, the man's hand shot out and grabbed my throat. I felt my feet leave the floor as he held me effortlessly in the air, black eyes narrowed in cold disgust. "I had thought you would have guessed by now, _Beatrice Smith._ I had hoped to bring back a person of _intellect_ from your homeland—an inventor, a historian, a warrior—or at _least_ one with knowledge of the _text itself._ Someone who could help me change the course of all Middle Earth! But instead," he snarled, his fingers tightened on my throat, and I gasped for breath. " _Instead_ , I find myself with nothing but a little _girl._ And not just any girl—" He gave a sharp, mocking laugh. "—a _musician!_ How truly _quaint."_

" _Stop!_ " I gasped, kicking feebly at him, scrabbling at the long-fingered hands choking me. My vision clouded as the man shook me roughly. I felt the blood rushing to my head, and my broken nose throbbed painfully, bleeding freely again.

The man's voice grew more agitated with every word, and I wondered if he was going to kill me right then and there. "After all the time I _wasted_ studying your world through what limited glimpses my palantír offers me, I find that my efforts have rewarded me with nothing but an _unintelligent—insolent—uneducated—slattern!"_ He shook me violently with each word, until I felt unconsciousness drifting over me. _"Fool!_ Do you _truly_ not know who I am? Do you _still_ not know _where you are?_ "

I looked at him uncomprehendingly, my head spinning wildly from lack of air.

"I am Saruman the White," he said slowly, drawing himself up to his full height and giving each word a cruel weight. The man— _Saruman—_ tightened his grip on my throat before throwing me heavily onto the floor. "And I have brought you to Middle Earth, Beatrice Smith."


	4. Chapter 3

Here's the next chapter! Thank you to everyone who reviewed this; it means a lot. Don't forget to let me know what you think of this chapter; I'd love feedback on how it's progressing so far. I'd also like to specify that this story is a mix of the book and movie universes. That's why I've made Saruman a kind of mix of both versions- he's more physically violent like the movie version, but he also has a very powerful voice, which, like in the books, he can use to manipulate people, as you'll see in this chapter.

Once again, I don't own anything except Bee.

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Chapter 3

 _Middle Earth?_ My whole body ached, and I stayed frozen on the ground for a long moment, coughing desperately until stars danced in front of my eyes.

As though from far away I heard Saruman speaking again, but my pulse was pounding in my ears and drowning out his words. _Middle Earth, what's that supposed to mean? Is he completely insane?_

I was jolted out of my thoughts when Saruman grabbed my arm and dragged me to my feet. "Were you not listening?" he hissed. "I said _stand up!"_

"Stay away from me," I gasped. I scrambled back from him, coughing violently again and massaging my throat. It hurt to speak.

"Come with me, Beatrice Smith," he said fervently. "We have much work to do, and there is no time like the present."

"But it's nighttime," I protested weakly. Saruman didn't answer. I hadn't really expected him to.

I picked up my violin case from the marble floor and slung it over my shoulder. The man swept imperiously from the room and I followed, staring in surprise as he grabbed a lit torch from the wall and carried it in front of him as he went. He'd really taken the whole medieval-wizard thing to heart. Did this place even have electricity?

I guessed it didn't: the whole building was ominously dark now that the sun had gone down. The only light in the halls and stairs we passed came from the torch in Saruman's hand and a few other lit torches bracketed here and there along the halls. Shadows leapt off of dark stone walls and arched ceilings, and I shuddered.

Finally we stepped into a vast, empty hall. I paused, gaping at the sight: tall black columns and narrow windows like a cathedral's rising up to a cavernous ceiling…

"What _is_ this place?"

"You are in Orthanc, the great tower at the heart of Isengard," Saruman said.

"Isengard," I repeated sullenly. "Right." Clearly this guy was sticking with his _Lord of the Rings_ delusion through and through. I recognized that name, _Isengard_ , vaguely, from watching the first movie. Much to Nathan's chagrin, I'd fallen asleep through a chunk of the beginning, though. And the entirety of the middle. And most of the ending.

Now I wished that I'd paid more attention; something in that movie might have helped me.

Not that I believed for an instant that he'd actually brought me to _Middle Earth,_ of course _._ The very thought was ridiculous, and it was offensive that he expected me to believe it at all. Still, I was sure _he_ believed it, just like he _clearly_ believed he was a wizard.

I wondered where I really was…this place was enormous—too large to be an ordinary building or house, surely. Maybe a museum? But even a museum would have proper lighting, air conditioning, traces of modern technology of some kind, and I didn't see anything like that here. Honestly, this whole place—the grand hall, the countless stairways, the columns and torch brackets on the walls—it looked like a genuine medieval fortress, or castle, or something.

I _couldn't_ be in a real fortress, could I? Because if I was, then I was much farther away from home than I realized. _He couldn't have drugged me and flown me to another country or something, could he?_

Fear coursed through me as Saruman led me out what looked like the main entrance of the building. I _couldn't_ be that far from home, could I? I hadn't been out for that long, and why would a crazy old man want to transport me out of state or overseas? No—it must be somewhere in Texas still, I reassured myself. Maybe there was some kind of Amish-type commune outside Dallas, where old-fashioned architecture like this was normal. _That might explain his crazy facial hair too,_ I thought.

The cold night air made me gasp as I walked outside. That was _another_ thing that didn't make sense. "Hey," I said nervously, hurrying down the stairs at the entrance to catch up with Saruman. "Why's it so chilly out?"

"What do you mean?" he asked impatiently.

"Well, I mean, it's the dead of summer. It never gets cold in Dallas in the summer, not even at night."

The man turned to glare at me, the torch throwing deep shadows over his skeletal face. "I have told you already, foolish girl, that you are no longer in your homeland, this _Dallas._ You are in Isengard. It is often cold at night here, when the winds from the Misty Mountains blow down from the north."

I nodded quickly, not wanting to provoke him further. My fists were shaking in anger. _Misty Mountains, my ass._

Wherever we really were, this place was huge. I couldn't see much in the darkness, but the building seemed to rise endlessly above us into the night sky, blotting out the stars until I had to crane my neck to guess its height; it was a skyscraper, then. I had more luck making out the open grounds surrounding the tower. Lights were scattered here and there, fires lit in what looked like underground pits and workshops, and figures walking around in the distance, torches in their hands. They looked strange, somehow, but I couldn't get a good glimpse of their faces.

The clanking sounds of metal on metal reached my ears, rising up all around us as we walked. _Late-night construction work, maybe?_

We continued down a dirt path that wound in a great arc around the tower, until we came to the door of a small building. A surprisingly normal-looking building, too, I thought, with gray stone walls and a low, flat roof.

"These are my private storerooms," Saruman told me as he beckoned me forward. "And you are going to help me identify some of my new possessions."

I walked inside, squinting in the dark. Saruman brandished his staff, and suddenly the torches along the walls of the room were lit, fire springing up and crackling steadily as though they'd been burning for hours.

I faltered. How had he _done_ that? There must have been some kind of automated mechanism in the torches, or something—but if so, why not just use regular electric lights? I was about to ask Saruman about it, when I noticed what was in the room.

The strangest assortment of junk I had ever seen was spread out before me.

"What the—where did you _get_ all this?" I faltered.

My first rather stupid thought was that Saruman had stolen the entire contents of a Radio Shack. Hesitantly I walked past piles of televisions, iPods, alarm clocks, hand-held radios, laptops, and other things I couldn't even identify: countless strange-looking plugs and engines and pieces of random machinery... I kicked tangles of power cords and piles of batteries out of my way as I looked through the mess, and saw Saruman watching me intently.

"Where the hell did these things come from?" I demanded again. Something told me this guy hadn't bought this stuff on Craigslist.

Saruman stood by the entrance still, observing my movements severely. "These are merely some devices I have collected recently."

"So you…stole them?"

He scoffed. "I know not to whom they belonged before; I saw them in my palantír and summoned them here, much as I did with you. These items may hold the key to the fate of Middle Earth."

"Oh," was all I managed to say. It was all so ridiculous, and he looked so damn _serious_ , that I fought the urge to burst into desperate, panicky laughter. _A bunch of power cords, TVs and broken wireless routers hold the key to the fate of Middle Earth. Oh boy._

Farther on down the storerooms, books were stacked in enormous piles—everything from textbooks to novels to magazines, and I counted at least five different languages in the pile nearest to me. _Now he's robbed a library too?_

"I don't see any copies of _The Lord of the Rings,_ " I said, before I could stop myself.

"I have been unable to obtain those texts, despite my best efforts," the wizard said, frustration clear in his voice. "A copy of that tale would be more valuable to me than any other object in my collection."

My breath caught in my chest as my thoughts strayed to the book Nathan had lent me, still hidden in my violin case. I clutched the case to my chest, my hands shaking. I couldn't explain it, but I really didn't want this guy to know I had a copy of one of the books he was so desperately looking for. Something told me it was best that he didn't have it… _But maybe,_ I thought, _maybe if you give it to him, he'd let you g—_

"Holy _shit!_ " I exclaimed, my train of thought derailing completely. On one of the far walls was an enormous collection of weapons.

My blood turned cold at the sight. I looked back in horror at Saruman, who merely smiled and gestured me forward. I _hated_ guns at the best of times—the trigger-happy Texas stereotype didn't hold any weight for me—and now here was a whole wall covered in the damn things. I knew nothing about guns, but I was still baffled by the different kinds he had gathered together—small, sleek handguns, enormous hunting rifles, old-fashioned revolvers, even some that might have been assault rifles.

I stepped back uneasily and nearly tripped over what I strongly suspected was a flamethrower. "Oh my God," I muttered wildly, trying to force my heartbeat back to a normal pace. "Oh my _God!"_

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Near the display of guns, boxes of ammunition were stacked high, along with wooden crates and sleek, army-green cases. I opened one of them hesitantly and leapt back in shock—they were filled with _grenades_. Another box contained what could only be pipe bombs, and there was other military equipment I couldn't even begin to name. More explosives, most likely, and what might have been disassembled gears from a military drone.

My limbs felt cold and rubbery; I felt a clammy sweat on my forehead. Kidnapping seemed like the least of this man's crimes now: was he planning some kind of mass murder? Had I been kidnapped by a _terrorist?_

Suddenly Saruman's hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. I nearly jumped out of my skin in shock, scrabbling to put some distance between us. This guy was seriously, dangerously insane.

"What do you think?" he asked me, a cruel smile on his face. The orange light from the torches threw an eerie glow on the weapons surrounding us.

"I…um…" I swallowed thickly and tried again, my voice breaking helplessly. "I don't know what to say."

"Come. There is more to see outside."

 _More?_ He led me outside the storerooms again and around to an open area behind the building, holding a torch aloft. "I have stored some of the larger pieces in my collection out here, as you see. What do you make of them?"

A row of military vehicles stood before me in the dark. I gaped at them for a long moment before Saruman shoved me forward.

Hesitantly I walked towards the nearest one—an enormous tank. I got out my phone and used the flashlight app to get a better look, and I saw a Russian flag stamped above the worn treads on the tank. _What the…?_ Next to the tank were two American Humvees covered in desert camo and splattered with dirt, and beside that rested what I could only guess was a military drone, with a small British flag on one of the narrow, five-foot long wings.

Conscious once again of Saruman's eyes following my movements, I continued. Behind the row of tanks were a few ordinary-looking cars: a Volkswagen convertible, a red Prius, a beat-up station wagon…each one with foreign license plates. Next to these stood a helicopter, small and sleek and, from what I could tell, non-military.

"Well?" His voice startled me out of my thoughts.

I swallowed with difficulty. "Well what?"

"What, among these objects, do you recognize?" he asked me, his tone abruptly businesslike.

"I…I don't understand."

"Surely you must have encountered some of these things in your homeland," Saruman said impatiently. "Explain to me their uses, the magic that makes them function!" A fevered madness was in his black eyes, manic obsession clear on his face, and I stepped back from him.

"I…okay. Okay," I stammered, trying and failing to articulate the depths of my panic. "Just…just…what are you _doing_ with all this stuff? You—you know you could be arrested for stealing military equipment! You—you could be, I don't know, fueling international conflict, stealing from the all these countries, I mean, what are you _thinking?_ Do you want to get blown up? Because that's what'll happen when the authorities find all this! Are you some kind of war criminal? How did you _get_ all this anyway?"

The man towered over me, looking furious. "You _will_ answer my questions _,_ " he snapped. "I do not have time to coddle you like an infant, nor must I explain my methods to you—"

"Please," I interrupted desperately, feeling my knees buckling. I clutched the hood of one of the Humvees for support as panic threatened to overwhelm me. " _Please!_ I don't understand what's going on! And I'm really not comfortable being around all this stuff when I don't know what you're going to do with it!"

Saruman breathed sharply through his nose. "I have acquired this collection using the same spells with which I brought you here yesterday. It is quite simple," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Through my palantír, I have witnessed glimpses of your world. Fire and lightning combined to undo stone…metal and wheels and flashes of light, and other, stranger inventions for which I have no name…Your world surpasses Mordor itself in its raw capacity for destruction."

His voice began to shake with a strange intensity, with fervor, with absolute _obsession._ I stepped back from him slowly, more afraid than I had been all night.

But he continued to speak, and I felt a fuzzy sort of numbness seep into my mind. I blinked slowly up at him.

"Ah, Beatrice Smith, I have learned so much from my glimpses of your people," Saruman said, and I felt my eyelids grow heavy. "I have seen with my own eyes the ways in which your kind has refined the art of war. Yet many things still elude me…I cannot _create_ such devices myself. And I cannot determine the function of many of the objects I have collected from your homeland."

I was surprised to find myself nodding placidly at his words. How reasonable his anger suddenly seemed, his impatience…Even his talk of magic and waging war no longer frightened me.

"You see," he continued, "I can catch only the briefest of glimpses into your world and its strange creations, and I cannot control exactly what I bring back. That is why I have not managed to obtain the text of _The Lord of the Rings_ itself _._ And it is why _you_ are here, rather than a true expert in mechanics and explosive weaponry. But you _will_ be of some use; it is too difficult, too time-consuming, to bring another human from your world here now. Such an opportunity as this could change the course of our impending war."

The wizard's voice resonated deep within my mind, and I found myself nodding in agreement, the fuzzy feeling in my mind growing stronger. Saruman's voice had become pleasant, familiar, trustworthy. He just wanted my help. What was so bad about that? The cold, clammy fear that had consumed me ever since I'd seen Saruman's storerooms began to ebb away.

It was a relief, really, this sudden numb acceptance, the absence of confusion or fear…and yet, something prickled at the back of my mind.

I hesitated.

"Now, tell me what you know," Saruman commanded. "Share your information with me, girl, and I may be able to send you home."

 _Home._ In my groggy, placid state, that was all I needed to hear.

"What do you want to know first?" I asked obediently.

"That's better," the man said, offering one of his menacing smiles. I smiled back stupidly, feeling my jaw go slack. "Now," he said, pointing his staff at the row of cars, "we will start with these vehicles."

And so the interrogation began.

Saruman directed me from one vehicle to another, and I told him everything I knew, without hesitation. Occasionally he would take out a scroll, quill and ink, and take notes or draw diagrams by the torchlight. I don't remember the details of what he asked or what I said; my brain had gone numb and foggy, as though I'd had one too many beers at The Fiddler's Elbow.

I didn't know a lot, of course. I'd told him before that I wasn't a mechanical engineer, or an expert in weapons, and that was the truth. But now I found myself desperately wishing that I knew more: I winced at the impatience building in Saruman's voice every time I failed to answer his questions sufficiently. I wanted to be able to answer his questions properly, to help his plans succeed, whatever they were.

The hours ticked by in the darkness, until a pale gray light appeared on the horizon, and still Saruman peppered me with questions. I was _tired_ ; I'd been tired for hours, of course, but somehow it no longer seemed important enough to mention. What did it matter, really? My voice was hoarse, my body ached from where Saruman had attacked me; I didn't even notice until I nearly collapsed while examining the worn-out treads of the giant Russian tank, Saruman making notes on his parchment next to me. He looked down at me carelessly.

"Perhaps that is enough for now," the old man said, and I gasped with relief. "You will return to the tower, and we will continue our work in due time."

I took a ragged breath and shook my head, my mind clearing suddenly as though a spell had been lifted.

"You have given me much to dwell on, Beatrice Smith. The use of these strange materials…such refined metals we might create, but these chemical _plastics,_ synthetic rubber filled with air, and of course the use of _gasoline—_ these resources present a much greater problem…" Saruman continued to speak, but I wasn't listening.

The sun had started to rise; in the weary, trance-like state I'd been in before, I hadn't noticed. But now…

Now I could see where I was.

I stared at the landscape surrounding me, feeling my jaw drop in horror. I wasn't in Dallas. I wasn't in Texas at all.

I simply _couldn't_ be.

Mountains rose up on the horizon in front of me, jagged, snow-capped, and _very_ real, silhouetted dramatically against the sunrise. A dark, wild-looking forest bordered them, spreading over miles of steep hills in all directions. I looked around me in panic, blinking uncomprehendingly at the view around me. _What was going on?_

I whirled around, my heartbeat roaring in my ears; then I saw the building— _Orthanc—_ in the pale dawn light. A skyscraper, I'd thought at first—I was wrong.

It was an immense tower, ancient and obsidian-black, rising impossibly high into the sky, so high that I had to crane my neck to see the very top. Time seemed to stand still as I gazed up at it, uncomprehendingly.

This was all too much to bear.

" _Where am I?"_ I shrieked, my voice escaping my throat in a wild, gasping breath. I staggered backward, shaking hands flying to my mouth. I had to be seeing things, or losing my mind, I just had to be—but how could this not be real? " _Where am I?"_ I screamed again.

A hand caught me by the shoulder, bringing me abruptly back to earth. "I do not have time for this nonsense," Saruman snapped. "I have explained to you time and again exactly where you are. Now _control yourself,_ and we will go back to the tower."

Numbly I shook my head, still reeling backward—this wasn't right—there had to be some kind of mistake—how could I be so far from home?

My head spun violently, and I felt my legs give out underneath me. My vision went dark.

And for the first time in my life, I passed out.


	5. Chapter 4

Thank you for all the reviews, favorites, and follows I've gotten on this story! It just makes my day knowing there are some people who are enjoying what I'm writing. In case it's not super obvious, I don't really know what I'm doing when it comes to pacing, plot, character development, or writing in general, but I'm trying my best. So if y'all could take a sec to review this story, I'd really appreciate it!

Also a side note for this chapter: I'm trying to make this as realistic as possible. Characters who accept that they're in Middle Earth right away, especially ones who are super calm and mature about it, just don't usually work for me. So hopefully y'all don't mind reading about poor Bee freaking out for a while.

I don't even want to get into how many times I wrote and rewrote this chapter. Eventually I cut it in half, to save y'all from five or six thousand words at once, so here is the first bit. I'll have the next one up in about a week.

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Chapter 4

I opened my eyes groggily, and squeezed them shut again when my head started to spin.

Where was I? The ceiling above me was unrecognizable. The bed in my apartment wasn't this scratchy and thin, surely. My whole body ached, too, as though I'd tumbled down a flight of stairs. What had happened to me? With an enormous effort, I sat up and looked around, hoping to make sense of things.

I was in a prison cell.

Melodramatic, yes, but there was nothing else it could be. The bed I'd been lying on was more of a lumpy pile of straw, held together by a mildewing mattress that looked like it had been _chewed_ on by something. My violin case was on the stone floor next to the bed, and a small tin bucket rested in the corner, but other than that, the cell was empty. A heavy wooden door stood at the far end of the room, and I walked up to it, untangling pieces of straw from my hair. The door was locked, unsurprisingly, but there wasn't even a handle on my side.

"So it wasn't a dream," I said numbly. My words came out in that strange other language I had spoken the night before, and my breath hitched. "It wasn't a dream."

I wondered if I should pinch myself, just in case, but my body already ached so much I decided it wasn't necessary. "I was kidnapped," I said out loud, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "I was kidnapped, and now I'm locked in a medieval-looking prison cell."

I had to say the words out loud, just to assure myself it was real; it seemed unbelievable that less than a day ago I'd been at work, sneaking onto Facebook when my boss wasn't looking, then meeting up with my friends, practicing my violin...Fighting the urge to scream—or maybe vomit—I turned to the window above the bed. It was too high to see much out of, but I stood on my violin case, jumped, and managed to grab onto one of the window's bars and pull myself up high enough to peer out.

 _Mountains._ So I hadn't imagined that, either.

With a wince, I dropped back down to the floor and put my head in my hands. "I've been kidnapped, and I'm locked in a prison cell, _and_ I'm in…I'm in Middle—"

I choked on the words. It wasn't true. Of _course_ it wasn't true. What was _wrong_ with me? Even saying it out loud seemed ridiculous.

No, sooner or later I'd find out what was really going on, and make it back home. After all, I'd been missing for a while now; my friends must have called the police when I hadn't shown up at the bar for our gig. Was there a team of investigators looking for me? I imagined them breaking down the door of my apartment: maybe they would find a long white hair on the carpet and they'd be able to track Saruman down. I laughed hollowly; it seemed impossible that they'd have his DNA or fingerprints on file or anything, but you never knew. I imagined myself pointing at the wizard in a police lineup: _That's him, officer. The one with the beard and cloak_.

I laughed again, louder this time, on the verge of hysteria. Panic was threatening to overwhelm me. No, _no_ , I had to keep my head! There had to be something constructive I could do.

I dug through my violin case. My phone was still there, the case cracked from where Saruman had thrown it onto the floor last night. Still no bars. I waved it around desperately, trying to find a signal, but I wasn't really surprised anymore when it didn't work. I opened the camera on my phone and used it as a mirror, rubbing at some of the dirt and dried blood on my face with a sigh. I looked absolutely horrible. My nose was swollen and deeply bruised, and yesterday's mascara was smeared, raccoon-like, under my eyes. "Lookin' good, Bee," I muttered.

Suddenly my cell door unlocked with a _thunk_. I scrabbled to my feet as the door creaked open.

A young man stood there, looking for all the world like he'd just come from a Renaissance fair. He wore a threadbare tunic, some kind of thick brown leggings, and muddy boots. A long knife was strapped to his hip. He looked like he hadn't bathed in weeks, and his long stringy black hair fell into his thin, sunburned face.

I backed away from the door. "Who are you?"

"I am a s-servant of Saruman," he muttered, his eyes trained on his boots. I winced; his teeth looked as though he'd never been to a dentist in his life. "I've b-brought you your food, miss."

I hesitated. He certainly _looked_ crazy, with the whole medieval getup, but he couldn't be _completely_ insane, could he? "Hey…you don't believe in all this, right?" I asked, hardly daring to hope. Maybe, just _maybe_ , this guy could help me. "You don't believe this whole…'Middle Earth' thing, do you?"

"I...I don't understand," the man said, sounding wary. He still refused to meet my eyes, looking instead at a spot on the floor. "J-just take your food, miss." He tried to shove the tray of food into my hands, clearly wanting to leave as quickly as possible.

"Wait, hold up," I crossed my arms, not wanting to miss my opportunity. "Just tell me, where are we? I mean, where are we _really?_ "

He hesitated, now staring determinedly at the ceiling. "I don't understand," he repeated, his voice shaking. "S-surely the wizard Saruman has t-told you that you are in Isengard?"

I could have screamed. "No, no, _no!_ I don't care where he _says_ we are. I want the truth! I know Isengard isn't a real place, _you_ know it's not a real place, and you know that man isn't a _wizard!_ He _can't_ be! Can't you just—just _please, please_ start making _sense?"_

The man shook his head, looking baffled.

I took a deep breath, clenching my fists. I didn't want him to see how close to tears I was. _How could he have the same exact delusions as my kidnapper?_ "Look, let's…let's just try again, okay? We'll start out simple. My name is Bee, and I'm from Dallas. Now then. What about you?"

The man's hands were shaking now; he looked positively terrified. "M-my name is Einar, miss. I hail from Dunland."

"Where's Dunland?" _Please, please be somewhere in Texas or something, please-please-please—_

"Just to the n-north, miss. W-west of the Misty Mountains." Einar was scowling now, as though insulted that I hadn't heard of the place. I sighed in frustration, and decided to give it one last shot.

"Look, Einar, please, I need to get out of here. I've been kidnapped, and I'm really far from home. Can't you help me out? Do you, I don't know, have a cell phone I can use? Mine doesn't have bars, and it's running out of battery." I held up my phone to show him.

Einar leapt back as though burned, yelping something in a language I didn't understand. He made a strange zigzagging movement with his hands over his forehead, like he was warding off an evil spirit. I stared at him in bewilderment. "Y-your f-f-food, miss," he stammered, pressing the tray into my hands so hastily that the cup of water splashed onto my shirt.

"Wait, _wait!_ " I exclaimed, sensing that he was about to lock the door and run off. "What's wrong? What are you so scared of?"

"P-please, miss," Einar said, backing out of the room and staring fixedly at my shoes. "D-do not put a c-c-curse on me or my family. I want n-nothing to do with you or your sorcery!"

I nearly dropped the tray of food. "Sorcery?" I repeated furiously. " _Sorcery?"_

"I did not m-mean to anger you, miss! I—forgive me—" The rest of his stammering words were cut off as he slammed the door shut behind him.

I was left alone once again.

I heard his hurrying footsteps retreat down the hall. _He was afraid of_ me _the whole time?_ I thought, stunned. I looked at the tray of food in my hands numbly: a tin cup of water, a hard roll of bread, and a lump of vegetables and unidentifiable meat. _Prison food._

I burst into tears. Really, I didn't care about the prison food—Einar could have brought me all-you-can-eat barbecue and I wouldn't have cared—but I couldn't _believe_ that he was just as crazy as Saruman. How could that be possible? There had to be some kind of explanation, _something, anything, think, Bee, come on!_ With a shuddering breath, I sat down on the floor and did what I always did when I was in over my head: I started taking notes.

Digging through my violin case, I dug out a pen, and using the back of some sheet music, began writing. _Things to figure out,_ I headed the paper. There, nice and simple. _Where am I?_ was a subheading. _Mountains, forests + cold = not Texas. How did Saruman get me here—Drugs?_ I sighed. Maybe this was hopeless. I felt incredibly stupid writing all this down; it was too strange for me to make sense out of it all this way, surely. I plowed on anyway.

 _Speaking and writing in_ _different language—Mental problems?_

 _Kidnapper made me answer questions yesterday; I couldn't think straight—Hypnosis? More drugs?_

 _Prison guard just as insane as kidnapper. Acts like he never saw a phone before. Thinks I'm from another world—Brainwashing? In a cult with Saruman?_

 _Saruman collecting weapons, electronics, books—plotting terrorism?_ I shuddered at the memory of the night before. Stockpiles of explosives shadowed in torchlight, the wizard staring hungrily at his collection as I pointed out the various gears and mechanisms of the vehicles he'd stolen—

I shook my head, pressing my fists into my eyes. I'd never been so afraid in my life as I'd been last night—it was horrible, all those weapons still sitting in the storerooms, and none of it made sense, none of it—

 _Solution #1. You're hallucinating._ I wrote, the pen shaking in my hand.

 _#2. You've been drugged._

 _#3. You're a contestant on the world's worst new reality show._ I laughed hollowly, tears streaming down my face now. I didn't believe any of those explanations, not even for a minute. This was all too vivid, too painful, too detailed—whatever was happening, it wasn't staged, and it wasn't all in my head. Which left:

 _#4. You're really in Middle—_

I stopped. I couldn't do it. I couldn't write it down. I just _couldn't._

With a scream of helpless panic, I crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room.

* * *

The rest of the day passed slowly.

I barely moved from my spot on the floor. I picked halfheartedly at my prison food, blanching at the taste. I typed out text messages for my mom, for Nathan, Caroline, and John, and pressed _send_ even though I knew they wouldn't go through. I scrolled through my music, listlessly tapping my foot against the stone floor to the melodies and watching as the sun slowly sank beneath mountains on the horizon.

Suddenly I heard my door unlock again. "Einar?" I sat up.

The door opened just a crack, and Einar's face came into view, eyes downcast. He was pale and shaking.

"I h-have more f-f-food for you, miss, but p-please, cease your spellc-casting before I enter." He was still staring at the ground.

"What? What are you talking about?"

He pointed, with a trembling hand, at the bed. My phone was sitting there, music still playing from the speakers. "Th-that, miss, that unearthly noise. It is not _n-natural_ —"

"It's Tartini's Violin Sonata in G Minor—"

"I care not wh-what you c-call it, but please, just cease it at once!"

"Fine!" I snapped, turning the music off. I wasn't in the mood for his strange behavior. "No more _unearthly noises_. It's safe to come in."

The man let out a shaky breath and entered the room. "Y-your…your inc-c-cantations were l-lovely, miss," Einar said carefully, his voice trembling worse than ever. "I m-m-meant no offense."

"It's all good," I muttered. "I never quite got the hang of that piece myself, it's famously impossible to play. _Man_ , I miss my violin." I was talking mostly for the sake of talking; I'd sat in near-silence all day, and I couldn't bear it anymore. "I mean, I've practiced the violin every day without fail for five years, through finals and Christmases and pneumonia and everything, and now I can't, all because I set my violin down on my stupid couch instead of putting it back in my case before I got kidnapped!" I hesitated, seeing the bewilderment on Einar's face, but rambled on regardless. "The worst part is, I actually kinda _like_ the idea of being stuck in a cell in a tower, playing the violin. It'd be like a fairy tale," I went on wistfully. "I'd play a song by the window, looking all mournful, with the wind blowing through my hair...that might make it more bearable. You know what I mean?"

"I c-can't say that I do, miss," Einar mumbled, looking thoroughly bewildered. Poor thing. He held a torch in his hand, and the shadows playing across his face made him look even younger than before, maybe even younger than I was. I wondered what he was doing working for a man like Saruman.

He handed me a tray of food, identical to my previous one. "Thank you," I said. "I was worried I'd only get one meal a day in here. Medieval prison and all."

"Aye, well, you're s-s-supposed to," Einar said awkwardly, now staring determinedly at his shoes. "Our f-food supplies are rather low, wh-what with the wizard building his army. I j-just thought, well, even s-sorceresses need to eat, miss. And one extra p-plate will hardly go amiss in the k-kitchens."

I blinked in surprise. "Oh! Well…gosh. Thanks, Einar." The poor guy looked even more terrified than before, and made a dismissive noise in his throat as he hurried toward the door. "Wait," I stopped him. "Um, look, man, while you're here…I need to use the bathroom."

"You…wish to take a bath?"

" _No_ ," I exclaimed. "I need to _pee,_ Einar. Can't you take me to a toilet?"

He raised an eyebrow in surprise, eyes flicking to the bucket in the corner of the cell. I stared at him. "What…oh no." _No way in hell._ "The _bucket?_ " I said desperately. "You want me to do my business in a _bucket?_ "

Einar's face went slightly red as he backed out of the cell. "Goodnight, miss."

"Oh, come _on_ —" The door slammed shut, cutting me off. I sighed as I heard the lock thunk loudly into place. "Well, that's just _great_."

I approached the bucket like a prisoner heading to the gallows. _Be strong, Bee._ I cringed. This was so humiliating. There wasn't even toilet paper! I steeled myself, and managed to do my business without making too much of a mess, cursing Saruman and Einar and Isengard all the while.

When I was done, I sat down on the straw bed and cried into my tray of food. It started slowly enough, just a few self-pitying tears rolling down my face, but soon I was sobbing uncontrollably, my whole body shaking helplessly as I took in everything that had happened to me.

"I wanna go _home,_ " I sobbed, burying my face in my hands and flinching when my palm pressed against the bruises and cuts on my face. I curled up into a pathetic ball on the bed, crying in the dark until I could barely breathe.

Maybe, somehow, things would make sense tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 5

_Oh boy, y'all. I'm really excited about this chapter. We're past the crying (mostly), we're upping the tension, Bee gets a little more resourceful, and I finally get to do a title drop!_

 _I'm looking forward to hearing what you think—is it plausible, written okay, etc? I hope so, but again, I'm a plot-writing novice. A word of advice, support or constructive criticism would go a long way. Also, music (classical and otherwise) will be referenced in this and several other chapters, so if anyone has any lesser-known recommendations for classical music, please let me know; I'm not actually a music expert or a violinist, I'm only writing about one._ _Also, does anyone have a recommendation for a title image for this story? As you may have noticed, it doesn't have one yet._

 _And finally, thank you so much to everyone who is reading, following, favoriting, and reviewing: y'all make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside!_

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Chapter 5

Tomorrow came at last, but things still didn't make sense. Frankly, I was starting to think that things might never make sense again.

I'd slept fitfully into the early afternoon. Between the ominous sounds of construction outside my window and the screaming of crows flying around the tower all night, I was ready to rip my hair out in exhausted frustration.

I grabbed my phone with a lethargic hand. Six percent battery left; still no bars. I took a deep breath; after spending most of yesterday sobbing uncontrollably, I'd made a pact with myself: I wouldn't cry again—not a single tear—until I made it back home. After all, I'd cried more in the last two days than I had in the past two years put together. It had to stop.

With a now-familiar _thunk_ of the lock, the cell door opened. "Morning," I muttered as Einar appeared in the doorway.

"But it is after n-noon, miss." Einar glanced up at me briefly, before looking quickly back down at the ground. "Your f-food," he offered, handing me a tray with the same stale bread, mushy vegetables, and unidentifiable meat as yesterday. "And the w-wizard is occupied, I believe, with other m-matters today. He expects a g-guest to Isengard soon, I have heard, and is making p-preparations. Perhaps you will c-continue your w-work with him after his guest departs."

"Oh. Great." I swallowed heavily. "Thanks, Einar." In all my panic at being locked up and possibly being in a make-believe book universe (I winced as I realized how ridiculous that sounded), I'd almost forgotten that Saruman said he'd be coming back to continue his interrogation.

Numbly, I watched my guard clear away the empty food trays from yesterday, and I winced in sympathy as he replaced my pee bucket with an empty one. "I bet Saruman isn't payin' you enough to do this job," I muttered sourly.

Einar didn't respond, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards briefly as he left the room, and it occurred to me that, against all odds, I might have made a friend here.

The day passed even more slowly than yesterday, if that were possible.

So far I'd succeeded in my not-crying pact, but without an outlet for my panic, I was at my wit's end. I paced back and forth across my cell like a caged animal, pulling at my tangled hair and biting at my nails until I nearly drew blood. I was going to lose my mind in this cell—if I hadn't lost it already.

The shadows lengthened on the walls. The battery on my phone eked away to three percent as I listened to more of my music to pass the time. And despite myself, my thoughts kept drifting to the book I had tucked away in my violin case. I'd been trying to ignore it—why feed the insane thoughts drifting through my mind, after all?—but I couldn't stop wondering if maybe it could help me figure out what was going on.

It was early in the evening when I finally gave in to my curiosity. Bracing myself, I opened my case and pulled out Nathan's copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring._

My hands shook as I examined it in the gold evening light _._ The book was a hardback, but small, like the pocket Bible my mom used to carry around, and it was clearly very well-loved: the edges were frayed, and deep cracks had formed in the book's spine. I studied the image on the cover of the book for a long moment: nine silhouetted figures walking along a path, one leading a pony, one with an axe, one with a bow and quiver slung over his back, one leading the group wearing a pointed hat and carrying a staff like Saruman's... This was the Fellowship; I knew that much. I flipped the book over.

"'No imaginary world has been projected which is at once so multifarious and so true,'" I read aloud. It was a quote from C. S. Lewis, emblazoned in gold letters; the words sent a chill down my spine. _Even C. S. Lewis is going on about how real this book is,_ I thought impatiently. _What is wrong with everyone?_ "'Here are beauties which pierce like swords, or burn like cold iron.'"

I opened the book hesitantly, irrationally afraid of what I might find, and flipped through the pages until I found a map of Middle Earth. I sucked in my breath sharply. "Isengard," I read, seeing a tiny tower marked on the page, nestled between a huge mountain range and a forest. _And there's Dunland,_ I noticed. _To the north, just like Einar said._ I stared at the mountains on the map, my blood feeling cold and thin in my veins.

Standing up shakily, I looked back and forth from the map in the book to the mountains out my window, panic building up in my chest until I thought I might burst. Were the mountains in the same place out my window as on the map? I couldn't tell, but it certainly looked like it; so what did that mean? Did that mean—

I nearly jumped out of my skin as the cell door unlocked.

I whirled around, my heart pounding painfully. "Jeez, Einar, you scared me," I gasped—but it wasn't Einar in the doorway.

Another man stood there, dressed in the same Renaissance-fair-hobo style I was getting accustomed to. "Who are you?" I asked hesitantly, hiding the book behind my back hastily.

"Tarbyn, son of Felmyn," the man said carelessly, as though pleasantries like that were a waste of his time. He stepped into the cell, holding up a lit torch in the twilight, analyzing me closely.

Tarbyn looked directly at me as he spoke, clearly unafraid of me the way Einar was. He looked just as unkempt and dirty as Einar, but bigger, broader, and at least ten years older, with leathery-looking skin and a wiry beard. Something unpleasant shone in his eyes, too, and I stepped back. But maybe it was just the lengthening shadows and my heightened paranoia making him look so creepy, I thought. "So are…are you from Dunland too?" I asked him, trying and failing to sound lighthearted.

"Aye."

Tarbyn stepped closer. I stepped back. "What are you doing here? Where's Einar?"

"I came to see if the rumors were true, about the sorceress the wizard collected from a far-off land." He sneered. "They seem to have been greatly exaggerated."

I crossed my arms, prickling at the word 'collected' but not wanting to make him mad. "Well…I'm sorry to disappoint you, then," I said blandly, but it seemed that Tarbyn wasn't finished.

"After all the rumors I've heard, all the efforts the wizard's gone through, this is it?" the man slurred, staring at me accusingly, and I wondered suspiciously if he was drunk. "After all, I heard tell Saruman has a _flying machine_ stored away from your world—and _this_ ugly, scrawny thing's the only person he's got to show for it?"

"Flying machine?" I repeated, trying to keep my voice level. "You mean the helicopter?" The man shrugged in response, taking a steady step towards me. I swallowed. "Um, while you're here, though, I have a question for you," I added, hoping to distract him; I didn't like the look on his face, predatory and mocking. "Can you just explain to me, in very, _very_ clear terms, where I am?" This might be my last chance, I thought wildly. I was grasping at straws now, I knew, but I had to be sure.

Tarbyn raised a bushy eyebrow and folded his arms. "What do you mean? You're in a cell in Isengard."

My eyes narrowed, and I opened the map in my book again. "And where is Isengard? _Geographically_ , I mean."

He looked at me as though I'd been dropped on my head as a baby. "North of the Riddermark, and south of Dunland and the Misty Mountains. It borders the forest of Fangorn and lies along the river Isen." He snorted impatiently. "A child would know all this."

But I wasn't paying attention to him anymore. I was studying the book, tracing my hand over the black lines of the map. They were all there… _Fangorn, the river Isen, the Misty Mountains..._ everything was just like Tarbyn said—

Suddenly the book was wrenched from my hands. _"Hey!"_

"What do you have here, sorceress?" Tarbyn examined the book in the torchlight. He pulled at a page curiously as though he'd never seen paper before, and the map tore free from the book with a horrible ripping noise.

"Stop it!" I exclaimed. "What'd you do that for? That's my friend's book!" I scooped up the fallen page in my hands. Nathan would be furious.

"I have never seen a _book_ like this," Tarbyn observed. "Witchcraft from your homeland, I imagine." He tossed it onto the floor with unease in his eyes, as though he'd been handling a live snake.

I clutched the torn page in my hand so hard it started to crumple. I should have known that this man would be just as crazy as Einar or Saruman…in utter desperation, with my last dying ember of hope, I tried one last time. "Have you ever heard of Texas?"

Tarbyn looked at me as though I were crazy. Maybe I was. "Teck-sis? No."

"The United States of America?"

 _"No._ I'm growing tired of these questions."

"What about…what about a story called _The Lord of the Rings?_ Have you ever heard of a man called Tolkien? What about—"

Without warning Tarbyn struck me across the face. "That's enough _nonsense!_ Women like you shouldn't speak unless spoken to."

I staggered back, tears of shock welling in my eyes. I tasted blood on my lip. "You say we're in Middle Earth?" I yelled, backing a good distance away from Tarbyn. I was shaking from head to toe, and wondered briefly if I was going to vomit. "Well, I don't think much of y'all's manners in Middle Earth, _asshole!_ "

Suddenly Tarbyn was only inches away from my face, and the smell of horses and alcohol was strong enough to make me gag. So he _had_ been drinking, then—my heart sank even as my blood turned to ice. He grabbed me at the juncture between my shoulder and neck, his thumb pressing against my windpipe. I strained away from him, struggling to breathe—

"T-Tarbyn!"

The man whirled to face the cell door and sneered. Einar stood there, shaking slightly, a torch in one hand and a small tray of food in the other. "Evening, Einar," Tarbyn said casually, and I managed to wrench myself away from him, gasping for breath and shaking. "Come to see your friend?"

Einar stepped back nervously, looking at the floor. "N-no, I…I only—"

"Frightened of your own shadow, you are," the man laughed.

"Y-y-you know the Wh-White Wizard will not w-want you to lay a h-hand on her," Einar managed, his voice strained as he set down the tray of food on the ground. Despite myself, I felt a sudden pang of affection for the poor guy. "Y-you know he spent y-years inv-venting a spell just to bring her here."

Tarbyn jutted out his chin and for a moment I thought he might hit Einar, but he just snorted and spat on the ground between them. "Aye, you're right," he conceded, looking thoughtful. "The wizard's gone half mad spying on this other world."

"E-exactly," Einar said, looking relieved, but Tarbyn wasn't done yet.

"Obsessed, he's been. All those years the wizard spent, studying his palantír, sending things there and bringing things here, and for all his efforts he winds up with _that,"_ he sneered, sending an ugly look my way. "I don't know why he's even kept her alive," he added. "If I were the wizard, I'd've thrown her to the orcs without a second glance, sorceress or no." He laughed at the horror on my face, but something he'd said gave me pause.

"Wait," I exclaimed. "What d'you mean, he sent things there? Saruman sent things _from_ here to my—"

Tarbyn's fist connected with my jaw for the second time, and stars exploded behind my eyes. "I told you not to speak unless spoken to!"

"Tarbyn," Einar protested weakly, eyes darting between us.

"You were right, Einar," Tarbyn sneered as he advanced towards me, his hand grabbing my throat again. "The wizard worked far too hard to end up with this scrawny, nosy little sorceress, if a sorceress she really is. He would probably reward me for ridding him of a burden such as her." He pulled me closer, and I jerked my knee upwards the way I'd seen women do in movies, making satisfying contact. Tarbyn released his grip on my neck but swung the torch in his other hand at me, so close that the heat seared at my face as I leapt back. With a snarl, the man lunged at me, eyes burning in the torchlight.

Some instinct told me to use my phone, and without thinking I grabbed it from my pocket, brandishing it in front of me like a weapon. I thought for sure Tarbyn would laugh at me again, but instead he faltered, staring at the white light of my phone's screen as though mesmerized, suspicion in his beady eyes.

Quickly, I opened my music and pressed play: the third movement of Mahler's Resurrection Symphony shattered the silence of the cell.

"What is that? An incantation of some kind?" Tarbyn snarled. By some miracle, he was backing away now, the blood draining from his leathery face. "Stop it!" Both Tarbyn and Einar looked uneasy, clammy, as though I were truly putting a spell on them.

They had never heard a symphony before, I realized. The truth was clear on their stunned faces: they had never even conceived of such sounds, let alone that that noise might come out of a little device like the one in my hand. Seizing my chance, I turned up the volume as high as it would go, the strings and percussion and brass rising in a wild, bombastic crescendo so dramatic that the unease on the men's faces was transforming into terror. I would have laughed at the way their jaws dropped, but my heart seemed to have lodged itself somewhere in my throat.

Without another word, Einar fled into the hall, beckoning the other man to follow, and I felt a twinge of guilt at the fear in his eyes. Tarbyn hesitated—he jerked forward as if to knock the phone out of my hand, then seemed to think better of it, clapped his hands over his ears and ran after his companion. Einar gave me one last frightened look and slammed the cell door shut behind him.

I didn't move for a long time after they'd gone.

My whole body was numb. I stood motionless in the dark, my heartbeat drowning out the symphony still blaring from my phone. Finally my body came back to life; I hugged my arms to my chest, rubbing at my neck and face as though trying to scrub away the feeling of Tarbyn's grasping hands on my skin.

I couldn't believe he had threatened and hit me like that, or that I'd managed to scare him away, at least for the present. And I couldn't believe that after all this, everyone in this tower still held that we were in Middle Earth, that _The Lord of the Rings_ was true.

I couldn't believe it…I just _wouldn't._ Middle Earth wasn't real. It was the product of an old professor's imagination, it was fiction—magic and wizards and dragons and things I'd stopped believing in decades ago…

I stood there, trembling, thinking about all the things I'd learned since arriving here, and I finally broke my promise to myself and let out a sob of despair. The book had been right, hadn't it? The map was accurate, and then there was that quote on the back—the quote that made my blood freeze and my breath catch in my chest—I buried my face in my hands—no, _don't cry, don't cry—_ but it was all _real,_ how could it be _real?_

"It's true, isn't it?" I breathed, and saying it out loud made me more certain than ever. "Oh, God, it can't be—"

Abruptly the music stopped.

 _"No!"_ I jabbed at the home button on my phone, but it was too late. The light on the screen went out, throwing the entire cell into darkness. The battery had run out at last. And with it went all my connections to my friends and family, to my whole world, and now… _God,_ now I was entirely alone. I sank to the ground, feeling farther from home than I'd ever been in my life.

I was afraid, then, in the pitch dark, the all-consuming silence of my cell, afraid in a way I had never been before. I was lost, utterly and terribly lost, immeasurably far from home, and I could see no way of getting back. And in the absolute isolation closing in around me in the dark, I knew somehow, with complete certainty—

"I'm in Middle Earth," I whispered.

I groped around in the dark until I found the book that Tarbyn had thrown aside, and clutched it in my hands like a lifeline. I sat down on the ragged straw bed, staring numbly into the darkness. I didn't cry anymore; all my tears had gone. I straightened my shoulders in the dark, my hands steady on the book in my lap. Something was steeling itself inside me, the sheer force of it making my head spin—it pierced like swords and burned like cold iron, and I knew then that no matter how, no matter what it took, I was going to find my way home.

* * *

I don't remember falling asleep. The fear, the grim resolve, the lightheadedness of knowing _I was in Middle Earth_ all must have caught up to me at some point, though, because I woke up to the pinkish light of dawn flooding my prison cell. I blinked owlishly in the light for a moment, until I recognized the familiar _thunk_ of the door unlocking.

I sat up in a rush, suddenly wide awake—if Tarbyn had returned, I had nothing to protect myself with now. "Einar, is that you?" I asked, crossing my fingers as the door swung open.

But it wasn't Einar.

It wasn't even Tarbyn.

My luck had never been that good.

"Get up." Saruman swept into the cell, and despite the ridiculousness of his clothes and beard and staff, I froze; he looked every inch a wizard. _And if I'm really in Middle Earth, then he's really a wizard, he's a real, actual, honest-to-God—_ "Now!" The wizard snapped, and I scrabbled to my feet, pieces of straw sticking out of my tangled hair.

"What d'you want?" I asked, trying and failing to keep my voice even. If he was here to make me examine those horrible weapons of his down in his storerooms…I didn't think I could bear going down there again.

"One of my servants has just told me something very interesting," Saruman replied, a horrible obsessive glint in his black eyes.

"Oh?" I said carefully. It was then that I noticed Tarbyn, lurking behind Saruman in the corridor outside my cell. He smirked at me, and I flinched. _So he'd tattled on me somehow, had he?_

"Indeed," the wizard smiled. "I have been informed that you have something in your possession that is very valuable to me. Something I have been seeking for many years."

A horrible feeling was growing in the pit of my stomach. Unable to stop myself, my eyes flickered back to rest on the threadbare mattress, where Nathan's copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ still sat, torn, dirty, and covered in pieces of straw.

 _"Oh."_

"Now, Beatrice," Saruman said, his voice low. "It is time you gave me that book."

* * *

 _To clarify, the specific bit of music Bee plays is about seven and a half minutes into the third movement of Mahler's Resurrection Symphony. I highly recommend looking it up (actually, listen to the whole thing if you have an hour and a half to spare)—that part in particular leads to a very striking chord that is commonly referred to as—no joke—the "death shriek." It's metal AF and I like to think it would scare some medieval, superstitious bozos out of their wits. What do y'all think?_

 _I'll try to have the next chapter out soon. Also, I-have-crippling-anxiety-about-the-quality-of-my-stories I mean_ ahem, _I hope you take a second to review! It means more than you think!_


	7. Chapter 6

Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, and followed my story so far. Y'all have been so kind and supportive and it really makes my day knowing you like this fic! I hope you enjoy this chapter as well; it's super long to make up for the delay between posts. My life has been pretty busy lately, but don't worry- I _will_ keep updating this story, even if the updates are sometimes irregular.

Don't forget to review!

* * *

Chapter 6

The book was in Saruman's hands before I could blink. Dimly I realized I had grabbed it and held it out to him without a second thought, and I shook myself angrily. _What are you doing, Bee? Focus!_

"At last," Saruman said, the eagerness in his voice making me shudder. He held the book up to the light from my window, studying it closely. " _The Fellowship of the Ring."_

"Wait," I said, trying unsuccessfully to force down my panic. "How can you read it? It's in English." Saruman sent a withering glare in my direction, and I felt myself flush. _Translation spell, of course,_ I surmised, wondering when such things had started to seem so normal.

The wizard ignored me, admiring the book's thin pages and the neat, even print; I supposed for a world that didn't even have the printing press yet, the book _was_ pretty remarkable. "A Fellowship," he mused, examining the cover and then flipping through the prologue. "Interesting. Now, come with me, Beatrice."

"What? Why?" I demanded, even as I found myself slinging my violin case over my shoulder and heading out the cell door obediently. I shook my head again to clear it, but it was no use.

"I will not examine this book while standing in a prison cell," the wizard replied loftily, sweeping off down the hall.

I followed reluctantly, glaring as I watched Tarbyn skulk away down the hall in the opposite direction. _Slimy scumbag, thanks for ratting me out_. "Why d'you need me, then?" I asked the wizard. "I already told you, I don't know anything about those stupid books."

 _"Books?"_ Saruman repeated sharply. "There are more than one?"

I winced. _Nice going, you idiot._ "There's three," I said reluctantly.

"This is precisely why you are going to help me, girl. I underestimated you once, but it will not happen again. You clearly know a great deal more than you claim, even if you have not read the text itself. And if you refuse to aid me willingly, there are other ways of discerning your secrets."

I swallowed with some difficultly, my limbs turning to lead as I walked. He didn't mean _torture_ , did he? But—but I didn't _know_ anything! I had to get _home!_ "How long are you going to keep me here?" I managed.

Saruman didn't spare me a glance, walking even faster now. I had to jog to keep up, my sandals slapping ominously against the stone floor. "For the rest of your days, perhaps, short as they may be," he said dismissively, as if there was no point in lying to me any longer. "At the very least, until your usefulness has run its course."

I stopped in my tracks. "But you said," I stammered, "you _said_ you'd send me home if I helped you. Down in the storerooms. You _said…_ " I bit back a panicked sob. "Please, can't you send me back? You have your precious book, just let me go!"

"It is not simply a matter of _letting you go_ ," the wizard snapped. "Such a spell is immensely difficult to create; it took me months— _years_ of effort to bring you here. I am not about to lay aside my other works merely to return a lost little girl to her homeland, especially for one as useful as you. No, Beatrice Smith, you will not be going back."

 _Oh, God._ The hall seemed to spin suddenly. I snapped my eyes shut, willing myself to calm down without success. It had never once occurred to me that I couldn't get home from here in Isengard, that the wizard would outright _refuse_ ; what was I going to _do—?_

"Beatrice!" The wizard's voice shook me out of my thoughts. "Keep moving."

 _No…no, no, please…_ Tears were welling in my eyes despite myself. With immense difficultly, I moved my feet forward again, a wave of horror threatening to consume me. If my stomach hadn't been so painfully empty, I might have gotten sick in the middle of the hall.

I followed the wizard numbly as we entered a room lined with high, narrow windows. Belatedly, I recognized it: the watery beams of light reflected off the thick dust in the air exactly as they had several nights ago, when I had appeared shaking and numb on the marble floor, clutching my empty violin case and wondering if this was all a dream.

"What are we doing here?" I breathed. It seemed unnecessarily cruel, somehow, to take me back to the room I'd first arrived in when he was never going to send me home. _And if Saruman can't get me home, then who possibly can? If he won't let me go, then I can't stay here, I just can't, not a moment longer—_

Saruman ignored my question, stalking away to stand before a marble plinth in the center of the room. On top of the dais was a large orb, like a bowling ball; Saruman rested a clawed hand on it like a fortune teller and closed his eyes. I hadn't given the orb much notice when I'd first arrived, but now it drew my eye, despite myself.

As the wizard murmured under his breath, the orb began to swirl with white light under his hand. He held up Nathan's copy of _The Lord of the Rings_ and the light in the orb seemed to intensify, turning a fiery red.

It was mesmerizing—horrifying—I couldn't tear my eyes away, and if some part of me had still doubted the existence of magic, well, now I believed wholeheartedly. There was nothing else it _could_ be—magic hung thick in the air around this orb, the…what had Saruman called it? The palindrome? Whatever it was, I felt a strange, unpleasant prickle on the back of my neck as I looked at it, as though it was looking back at me, _through_ me…I shuddered and forced my eyes away.

"Well," Saruman said, his deep voice jolting me out of my thoughts. "It seems that this book is even more valuable than I had imagined."

"Oh," I said weakly. "That's good."

"Yet you claim it is the only the first of three. Tell me, what events are recounted in its sequels?"

"Uh…" I froze under the wizard's gaze, feeling the familiar, forceful compulsion to speak but not knowing quite what to say. "I don't know what happens in the sequels. There's battles, I think, and horses…" I cast my mind around desperately for anything Nathan might have told me. "Uh, there's hobbits, elves, probably some swordfights…Orlando Bloom running around in a wig…" my voice trailed off at the impatience on Saruman's face. "I'm sorry, alright?" I exclaimed, completely overwhelmed. "I never read the books, I didn't even see the other movies!" I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking hard. "Just…lemme get this straight," I clarified. "So, _nothing_ in the books has…has happened yet?"

"You tell me," Saruman snapped. "It is the Third Age of Middle Earth, late in the summer of the year 3018—"

"That doesn't mean anything to me," I cut him off, suddenly angry. God, I didn't understand _anything_ here! Nathan would have been better suited for this than me; he knew these books inside out and sideways, and would probably have weaseled his way back to Dallas by now, and stolen a new flat-screen TV from Saruman's storerooms for good measure.

"It matters not," Saruman said impatiently. He was leafing through the book's pages now, a hungry gleam back in his eyes. " _Concerning Hobbits_ ," he muttered to himself, eyebrows furrowing dangerously; he seemed to have forgotten I was there. "Why would such a text concern itself with hobbits? Unless…no. Surely not…" he began to flip through the pages with renewed fervor, and I swallowed. I may not have understood anything about this world, but I was pretty sure one of the main villains wasn't supposed to be reading ahead in his own story. What kind of horrible things could he do with that kind of knowledge?

I shook myself angrily. Well, and what was _I_ supposed to do about that? I wasn't even supposed to be here! It wasn't _my_ business, the fate of Middle Earth—none of this was supposed to exist, anyway! I was just some kid from Dallas, I had to focus on getting home!

But those thoughts weren't enough to keep me from shuddering as Saruman read on. "Bilbo Baggins…and a _Frodo_ Baggins…halfling names? It must be true, then— _this_ is why the Nine ride for the Shire—"

"M-my lord!"

Saruman snapped the book shut so violently that I jumped. Einar stood in the doorway on the opposite side of the room, looking as pale and homeless as ever. His eyes flickered toward me in surprise, but I couldn't read his expression. "What could possibly be so important that you disturb me here, fool?" Saruman spat, tucking _The Fellowship of the Ring_ into a pocket of his robes.

"F-forgive me," Einar bowed shakily, "but a v-visitor has arrived to s-see you, m-my lord."

A stranger swept into the room, thanking Einar in a quiet voice. The guard bowed again, looking quite petrified, but my eyes were fixed on Saruman's visitor. The man didn't cut a very impressive figure: he was stooped with age, his gray robes frayed and his beard windblown from travel. A patched, pointed gray hat was perched over his wizened face. But the stranger's eyes met mine as he walked forward, and suddenly I knew him. The man may as well have stepped directly out of a storybook; I knew who he was, _it was really him,_ he looked the way I'd always imagined him when I was young—

 _"Gandalf?"_

Both wizards turned to me in surprise. "Have we met, child?" Gandalf asked, raising a wild-looking eyebrow at me.

I gulped, feeling rather star-struck. "I—well, n-no—I just…"

"Gandalf the Grey," Saruman's voice rang out in greeting, cutting off my stammering. "You have come to Isengard at last. Forgive me for not greeting you at the gates, my friend," he said genially. "I have had a great deal on my mind of late."

Gandalf gave a small bow. "Think nothing of it, Saruman."

"Guard," the White Wizard snapped. He turned toward Einar, who nearly jumped out of his skin. "Take the girl back to her room."

I jumped as well. "What? No, wait—"

"But who is this, old friend?" Gandalf interjected mildly, turning his eyes on me. "By her dress, she is no Dunlending, nor one of the Rohirrim." I looked down at myself, flustered, wondering how I must look in Gandalf's eyes: a bony, gawky girl in ripped blue jeans and a stained purple blouse, bruises on my face and arms and my hair hanging greasy and tangled around my shoulders. I felt myself flush.

"No one of consequence," Saruman replied, and I glared up at him. Gandalf raised an eyebrow, which Saruman ignored. "Go now," he snapped at Einar and me. "The hour grows late, and there is much to discuss."

I faltered as Einar beckoned me urgently from the doorway at the far side of the room. I couldn't just _leave_ —how could I go back to that horrible cell now, when Gandalf was here—the real, actual _Gandalf—_ possibly the only other person in this whole ridiculous world who could help me?

Gandalf must have seen some of the helpless panic on my face, because he stepped forward suddenly and offered me his arm. "Come, child. I will walk you to the door," he said kindly. Saruman shrugged impatiently and turned away, surreptitiously picking up _The Fellowship of the Ring_ again.

Gandalf's steps were slow as we walked, and I wondered why he had wanted to escort me across the room—it seemed a strange request to make, since the door wasn't far.

"Are you well, child?" Gandalf's voice was low, and I raised an eyebrow—he clearly didn't want the other wizard to hear. I shrugged uncomfortably; anyone could see that I wasn't _well,_ but I didn't know how to reply without seeming rude. "You seemed to know me," Gandalf added.

I nodded faintly. "I…I'm a big fan, sir," I blurted out in a whisper, before my nerves got the better of me.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you."

"I—I mean, I've read all about you," I clarified. " _The Hobbit_ was one of my favorite books growing up. When I was seven I used to wait on the front porch, hoping you'd walk by and invite me on an adventure."

" _The Hobbit?"_ Gandalf whispered, eyes narrowing. "My dear girl, are you referring to—"

"Yeah, I am," I interrupted. I didn't have much time now—we'd reached the door, and Saruman would interrupt us soon. "Look, Saruman kidnapped me from far away. Another world, where Middle Earth is just a story. You have magic; _can you send me home?_ "

Gandalf frowned. He was silent for a long moment. "I do not know the nature of such magic," he said finally, his tone unreadable. "I fear that may well be beyond me."

I faltered; I could practically feel my last hopes shattering onto the marble floor at my feet. "But if you can't get me home…" my breath hitched, and I squeezed my eyes shut to calm myself. "Look, at least…just get that book away from Saruman, then. Please. He's _evil."_

Gandalf didn't answer, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously at me. We stood in the doorway now, Einar hovering near us, looking nervous and pale. "I mean it, he's _evil_ ," I whispered quickly. "He's collecting weapons from my world, he's trapped me here, he's working with—with…" Damn, I couldn't remember the name! "He's working with the _Eye,"_ I finished in a desperate rush, hoping the wizard would understand my meaning.

"That's enough." Gandalf flinched and took a step back from me then, eyes wide—apparently he'd understood quite clearly. "You cannot say such things, child," he hissed. "You cannot know, it is _impossible_ —"

"But…" I shook my head, desperation making me stumble over my words. "I saw it—the Eye, I mean—in the crystal ball, that palindrome thing. And it's in the movie—uh, the story, I mean. You can't trust him, _he's evil_ —"

"That is _enough_ , child," Gandalf insisted, releasing my arm and taking a step back. His voice held a careful pity, but there was suspicion in his eyes too, and I knew I was on my own. "May you fly far from this place, and may fortune be kinder to you than it has been of late. But I must take my leave of you now."

 _"No!"_ But before I could do anything else, the door closed with an awful sense of finality. Gandalf was gone.

"Come, miss," Einar's voice reached me as though from far away. I ignored him, pressing my ear to the door to listen to the wizards speak.

 _"…have acquired many objects from her strange world, and she is perhaps the crown jewel of my collection."_ Saruman's booming voice was reduced to a murmur through the heavy door. _"She is none of your concern, Gandalf."_

 _"So your experiments have been successful? Truly?"_ Gandalf's voice was barely audible. _"You are using the palantír to do this. Do you think it wise?"_

Saruman laughed. _"Do not speak to me of_ wisdom! _Always you have feared such power. But why?"_ There was a long pause, in which I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat pounding against the door. _"Why should we fear to use it?"_

 _"They are not all accounted for!"_ Gandalf exclaimed in reply. _"We do not know who else may be_ watching!"

"Miss!" I jumped as Einar touched my shoulder hesitantly. "W-we must go."

"Wait," I said desperately. I needed to hear what they were saying—I didn't remember much from the movie, but I was pretty sure Saruman was going to attack Gandalf, and soon. I should have told Gandalf more…or would my clumsy warning be enough? He hadn't even believed me, had he?

"Miss B-Beatrice," Einar hissed again. " _Please._ Do not m-meddle in the aff-affairs of wizards, it is said."

"But Gandalf's in trouble," I said hopelessly. "I don't know what to…I don't _remember_ , Einar, I don't remember what happens next." But there was nothing I could do, except hope that my warning had been enough, and that Gandalf managed to get that book away from Saruman. My shoulders sagging, I allowed myself to be led down the hall; Einar looked relieved to put some distance between us and the wizards.

But I didn't go far. I couldn't. "I'm not going back to that cell, Einar." My feet had stopped moving, almost of their own accord.

The guard hesitated, looking flustered. "B-but miss, the Wh-white W-wizard said to take you to—"

"No, no—I _can't_ go back, I just can't! I'm not going to waste away in here when the story's going on outside, and Saruman won't send me home! I have to do something, I have to escape, I have to _try!"_

"M-miss, I don't underst-stand you, but I cannot let you—"

"I'm sorry, Einar." I took a deep breath, turned, and marched off down an adjacent corridor, stunned by my own bravado. Einar had a _sword_ strapped at his side, after all, and was a servant of Saruman, no matter how kind and timid he'd been with me. But I had to get out. I had to get home. And if no one in this tower was going to help me—

"Miss, wai-wait."

I whirled around, bracing myself, but instead found Einar frowning sheepishly, pointing at a corridor to my left. "It…it is quicker to g-go that w-w-way, miss."

I stood stunned for a moment. Then, completely overwhelmed with emotion, I leapt forward and hugged him. The poor guard looked quite flustered and stepped back hurriedly, his face blotched with pink. "Go on, B-Beatrice," Einar stammered. "I will t-tell the wizard you c-c-cast a spell and esc-caped."

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak. But Einar met my eyes for the briefest of moments, and I hoped he saw the gratitude on my face before his eyes flickered back down to the ground.

I took a deep breath and ran in the direction he'd pointed.

My violin case swung wildly on my shoulder as I sprinted away, my sandals echoing on the stone floors as I flew down hall after hall, skidding around corners and leaping down spiral staircases. I wasn't sure exactly how to get outside, but the grand entrance couldn't be too hard to find once I made it to the ground floor. My breath was coming in wild, heavy gasps, and it wasn't just from physical exertion. I couldn't believe that I was really doing this—I was defying a wizard, I was fleeing from my kidnapper, I was escaping, _I was escaping!_

The tower was suspiciously empty, I realized, after I'd made it ten or twelve floors down. I was bracing myself at each turn, expecting to see guards or soldiers waiting to apprehend me, but none appeared. Had Saruman sent all his servants away when Gandalf arrived? Or were they all busy in those weird underground forges that I'd seen outside?

It was the storerooms I made for now. I didn't have a plan, exactly—or maybe I did, but it was so far-fetched and ludicrous that I couldn't even form the thoughts properly.

Running would look suspicious—if there _was_ anyone out here after all—so I forced myself to walk at as normal a pace as I could manage. Suddenly I heard a faint rumbling come from the tower behind me. I turned back and saw a sharp flash of white light in one of the high windows. Was that Saruman? Was Gandalf in trouble? I walked faster.

The mountains seemed to loom down over me as I went along the path, and I felt a giddy sort of numbness flooding my mind: these mountains were in _Middle Earth,_ there were _wizards_ in the tower behind me, I had made it out and was going to escape from my kidnapper—

But how? I swallowed. The vague plan in the back of my mind solidified suddenly into a concrete thought, and it was so ridiculous that I nearly laughed out loud. But now that I'd thought it, it was impossible for the idea to go away. _No,_ I told myself sternly. _That's the most idiotic thing I've ever imagined._ But what else could I do?

I paused outside the door to the storerooms, digging through my violin case hurriedly—I had to organize my thoughts somehow. But I'd left my ballpoint pen in the prison cell, and besides, there wasn't really time for taking notes right now, was there?

"Okay, Bee," I muttered to myself, ducking into the storeroom hesitantly; I could hide in here until I came up with a plan. "Mental notes. Think. What are your options?"

 _I could just run for it,_ I supplied, before shaking my head. Isengard was surrounded by that tall circular gate, made of stone and probably heavily guarded by Saruman's men; besides, I had no idea where to go after that. I'd probably starve to death in the wild even if I managed to get past the gates.

 _Steal a gun, and_ force _your way out the gates,_ was my next plan, but I swept that away immediately. I doubted I'd ever be able to stomach firing a gun, let alone shooting at someone. The thought made me feel sick.

 _Fine. Just steal a horse, then._ Well, that plan was better, certainly. But I didn't know where Saruman kept his horses, assuming he had some that were unguarded and in an unlocked stable, and there was still the problem of getting past the gates; I'd still need to force my way out with a gun. More importantly, I had no idea how to ride: I may have been from Texas, but I was a city girl at heart, and I'd never so much as ridden a pony at a petting zoo.

 _Well then—I could just take one of the cars outside the storeroom!_ Saruman had four cars sitting outside the building, five if you included the tank. But the Humvee was out of gas, the old station wagon was missing both front tires, the Prius and the Volkswagon had no keys, and I could no sooner drive a tank than sprout wings and fly.

 _May you fly far from this place,_ Gandalf had told me. But there was nothing else I could do. I was out of ideas, except for my first thought, that half-formed plan, too ridiculous to even consider—

A loud _boom_ reached my ears from the tower, followed by a faint, furious shout. The sound echoed eerily off the mountaintops, and I stepped further into the storeroom nervously. Gandalf and Saruman were fighting; of that I was sure now. And as much as I wanted to help Gandalf, there was nothing I could do for him anymore—I could hardly intervene in a magical duel—I would just make things worse.

No, I had to get out of here while I could; otherwise I'd spend the rest of my life helping Saruman wage war on innocent people, and I'd never get home…

 _May you fly far from this place._

The idea was a ridiculous one, yes, but I found myself clinging to it desperately; I had no other options, and after all, I was in _Middle Earth_ now. _Wizards_ were dueling in a tower behind me, mountains from a _fantasy novel_ were surrounding me, and suddenly my plan didn't seem that ridiculous after all.

And why not? I had spent an entire night, feverish and frightened and exhausted, examining the machines in Saruman's collection.

Unlike the other vehicles, this one had gasoline—not a full tank, but enough to get me out of Isengard, certainly. It was unlocked, keys resting on the seat cushion, ready for use. It even had instruction manuals under the passenger seat, which Saruman had made me read aloud by torchlight.

It could work. I could do this.

"Arm yourself first," I reminded myself sharply, trying to think clearly. With any luck, I wouldn't be back here ever again, which meant I needed to take as much useful equipment from my world as I could. Hurriedly I grabbed at parcels and electronics, stuffing my violin case with as much as I could fit. I went to the mountain of books next, seizing a few from an overflowing box and stuffing them into my arms. These rooms were filled with all I had left of my world; I clutched the armful of supplies to my chest, feeling oddly emotional.

Then my eyes turned reluctantly to the wall on the far side of the room: guns were mounted on it from floor to ceiling, piles of ammunition and explosives strewn about the floor. I hesitated. Some of the electronics began to slip out of my hands as I studied the weapons; I was paralyzed with indecision.

I hated guns. _Hated them._ It frightened me almost as much as my escape plan itself, but I knew it would be stupid to be lost somewhere in Middle Earth with no way to defend myself. I walked over and picked up a gun with a clammy hand. I didn't know what kind it was—some kind of pistol or other. I didn't know how to tell if it was loaded, either, so I rifled through the cases of ammo until I found bullets that seemed to match the size and style of the barrel—hopefully those would do. Feeling sick to my stomach, I slipped the gun into my violin case, and, because I never did anything by halves, I picked up an army-green case of emergency flares, along with what looked like a Kevlar vest.

Unable to stomach any more, I carried my new treasures out the back door and toward the rows of vehicles behind the storerooms. I squinted back at the tower behind me: silhouetted against the bright sunlight, two tiny figures stood on the very top of Orthanc. As I watched, one of them slipped out of view, struck down, perhaps, or forced backward out of my line of vision.

 _So far the movie scene is coming true, then,_ I thought feverishly. I hadn't stopped them from fighting, or Gandalf from getting captured—but if I wanted to escape my own imprisonment, I had to hurry.

This was it.

No more stalling—if I didn't do it soon, I would lose the last shreds of courage I had. It would work, if I acted quickly. It had to.

I braced myself, took a deep breath, and opened the helicopter door.


	8. Chapter 7

Super long author's note here—feel free to skip ahead to the story if you want.

A couple of quick notes on helicopters, stereotypes, and reviews:

First and foremost, I've never been in a helicopter before, and am armed only with the knowledge Google gave me (for instance, that autopilot probably wouldn't exist in a tiny personal helicopter like this one). So if I've gotten something really wrong, please let me know. I'd be happy to go back and tweak this chapter to make it more realistic. In any case, I hope I haven't ruined your suspension of disbelief by too much.

Secondly, I figured I should clear this up: my goals in writing this story are mostly to have a semi-realistic and engaging tenth-walker plot (I know, I know), and to add some unique elements to the girl-falls-into-Middle-Earth story we all know so well. To make this work, I ran into a bit of a crossroads. You need the OC to be believable, flawed, and out of her element of course, but you also need her to be useful and resourceful enough that it makes sense for the others to even let her join the Fellowship at all. I hope that I've struck the right balance here, as I've always loved the tenth walker concept but haven't found a story executed quite in the way I wanted. As someone (I don't remember who) once said, we all have a bit of tenth walker in us, even if we like to pretend we don't. It may be a cliched _idea_ , but the story itself doesn't have to rely on cliches and stereotypes to be fun and engaging.

And finally, regarding reviews: I really, truly appreciate all the support, constructive criticism, and pointers I've received so far; it means a lot and it helps me write a better story. What I _don't_ appreciate are flames, insults to the readers of this story, and illegible nonsense reviews screaming about communism (or whatever the hell. Honestly I'm pretty baffled). I mean, thanks for upping the review count on my story, I guess, but you've lost me here. I really can't fathom what might have caused such blithering, misdirected outrage in the handful of chapters I've written so far. I can't believe this has to be said, but if you don't like my story, my writing, or my OC, just act like an adult and find something else to read.

Let's keep this site a friendly, creative space to write about our favorite stories and support one another. This fandom is full of some wonderful, brilliant people, and we're all just trying to add our own spark of creativity to Tolkien's amazing world.

Anyway, I'm really excited about this new chapter and the direction this fic will go in the future. It'll be a while till I have time to update again, so this chapter's extra long to make up for it.

* * *

Chapter 7

This was going to be more difficult than I thought.

And that was saying a great deal, because my whole body was already shaking with the sheer impossibility of what I was about to do, so much so that I nearly stumbled over my own feet just loading the supplies I'd stolen from Saruman's stores into the helicopter.

There was more room for the stolen goods than I'd thought there'd be in the backseat of the vehicle. Camping gear was strewn on the floor, left in disarray by their previous owner. Some wealthy adventurer used to own all this, I supposed. They probably took their friends or family out skydiving and camping in the mountains, and were baffled when their helicopter and gear went missing one day. They would never— _could_ never imagine that it had ended up in Middle Earth. "Poor thing, bless their heart," I muttered out loud.

But I couldn't afford to think about that right now. I climbed into the pilot's seat and slammed the door shut decisively.

Closed inside the tiny, egg-shaped cockpit, I nearly lost my nerve then and there. My eyes darted back and forth across the helicopter's dashboard, panic swelling in my chest. There were so many buttons and dials, a joystick and pedals and levers and a weird sci-fi throttle and _how did I ever think I could do this?_ Maybe stealing a gun and taking off on foot would have been easier. But I knew I couldn't shoot at anyone. And I knew Saruman would catch me not five miles out of Isengard, if I even made it that far.

No, it was too late to turn back now.

It took me a long moment to even find the ignition on the dashboard. My hands shook so badly it took even longer to actually stick the key in and turn it.

I flicked through the heavy instruction manual as lights sprang to life behind some of the dials and screens. Thankfully there was a labeled diagram on one of the pages, and I slowly started to make sense of the controls. The lever on my left was the collective; the joystick thing in front of me was the cyclic; the yaw pedals were at my feet. Having names for all the gears helped me calm down, creating some order out of chaos. I made a list in my head, committing the diagram to memory as I read through their functions. Maybe I could do this.

I buckled my seatbelt, and buckled my violin case into the passenger seat for good measure, feeling oddly protective of it.

Now it was time to test the throttle. Keeping my eyes on the manual, I reached for the lever, braced myself, and—

The blades whirred to life above me.

"Ha!" I exclaimed breathlessly. "Ha _ha,_ yes!" Hell, maybe I really _could_ do this.

The helicopter was ridiculously loud, almost loud enough to drown out my thundering heartbeat, and the rotors stirred up a cloud of dirt in the air. I released the throttle hastily, letting the rotors die back down.

I pored over the instruction manual one more time. I'd already read aloud some of the basic flight instructions at Saruman's bidding, that first night in Isengard. He had been stunned by the concept of a flying machine: "a great mechanical bird," he'd said, and I'd let out a derisive laugh before quailing at the look in his eye.

I'd learned not to laugh at Saruman. I knew now just what he was capable of, and who he really was. _And yet here you are, trying to escape from him with a piece of equipment you've never even set foot in before_. I swallowed with difficulty. Hell, back home people took lessons, got pilot's licenses, worked for years and years to fly one of these things, and here I was like a complete idiot, trying to do the same, just like that. God, what was I _thinking?_

A panicked sob escaped me, and I was suddenly overwhelmed. I felt faint. The world seemed to spin beneath the pilot's seat. I couldn't do it. Why I'd even gotten into the helicopter was baffling. But I had to try, didn't I? Saruman was never going to send me home, but there had to be someone else out there who could. This world was full of magic, after all, wasn't it? I saw my mom's face clear in my mind, the faces of my friends and coworkers; I saw my old run-down apartment, the lime-green couch and chipped paint on the walls. Tears welled in my eyes. I reached for the throttle again.

This time the blades were even louder. I let them speed up, and up, and up, until the engine behind me roared and my stomach flipped upside down and the helicopter's heavy, egg-shaped body lifted off the ground.

I did it. I was flying.

The helicopter climbed into the air, its nose dipping slightly as it drifted forward, narrowly missing the roof of the storerooms. The rotors spun faster and louder than ever. My head reeled, and I realized I'd been holding my breath.

"Oh my God…oh my—" I swallowed nervously. I was going to crash into something at any moment, I just knew it…

But I hadn't run into anything yet, had I? I hadn't made the engine explode, I hadn't fallen out of the sky—those were good signs, right? I let out a nervous, giddy laugh, frightened by my own success.

The helicopter veered around the storeroom lazily, leaving it farther and farther below me. It was a good thing I'd never been very afraid of heights. My stomach lurched as the wind buffeted the helicopter back and forth, and I strained to steady the throttle unsuccessfully. I knew if this were a pilot's exam I'd have already failed. I was pretty sure helicopters were supposed to _hover_ into the air when they took off, not lurch forward uncontrollably. But I had no idea how to get the damn thing to stay put, which meant I was drifting forward, arcing sharply to the side as I rose, the top of Orthanc growing closer and closer.

The wide, flat roof of the tower rose up to meet me on my left side. I gulped.

The wizards were there, just as they'd been in the movie. Only now they weren't fighting one another anymore; Gandalf had been knocked back to the very edge of the tower, and even from my far-off vantage point I could see the blood on his temple. My heart twisted painfully in my chest. He wasn't moving.

 _Get up! Fight back!_ I thought desperately, before realizing that he was staring in utter shock in my direction. Saruman, too, had stopped advancing on the other wizard and was gazing at the helicopter's ungraceful ascent into the air.

What must it be like, I wondered suddenly, to live in a medieval world—magic or no—and suddenly see a modern helicopter in flight? Then Saruman raised his staff toward me, and I decided that I didn't want to stick around to find out. It was time to move faster, to leave this place behind me.

I jerked one of the controls forward decisively—then screamed as the helicopter nosedived violently and began plummeting back to earth.

"No— _no—stop!"_ I pulled back in the opposite direction as hard as I could and leveled out fifty feet or so from the ground. The tail careened drunkenly for a few moments, and I forced down the bile that had risen in my throat, shaking uncontrollably.

"Holy…crap…" I breathed hoarsely. "Holy… _crap."_

Still swaying this way and that on the wind, I struggled to flip through the instruction manual while keeping an eye on the controls. I was drifting upward again, gaining speed and altitude as the throttle pushed the blades faster and faster above my head. I was nearly level with Orthanc again.

 _Oh,_ that's _what I did wrong,_ I realized as I read over the diagram. _Oops._ This was even tougher than it looked; I had to move multiple levers at once to control my acceleration, it looked like, and move them in different directions. I set aside the manual and nudged the joystick forward again, ever so gently, at the same time pulling at the lever on my left— _yes—_ I was moving forward properly now; any second I'd be past the wizards and on my way—

A deep, chanting voice made me pause. My hands faltered on the controls, reducing my speed as I looked down. The voice sent a chill down my spine, and was clearly audible even over the wind. It was the same voice I'd heard in my apartment, a thousand lifetimes ago, when my friends gathered around me, asking if I was okay, telling me they'd see me soon…

It was Saruman's voice, and he was casting a spell.

Suddenly I noticed the clouds gathering above the tower—where had they come from? They were solidifying and darkening as I watched, and were rotating slowly above me, as though mimicking the helicopter's blades. "Great," I said faintly, fumbling at the controls with shaking hands. "Now he can control the weather too?"

The entire helicopter swayed suddenly as the wind picked up, and it began to spin like a top in midair, even as I began to lose altitude again. _No, no no—_ I slammed a foot down on one of the yaw pedals, but that only made it spin faster. "Damn it, wrong pedal—" Fumbling with the controls and pedals, I finally guided the tail back in the proper direction, my entire head spinning until my stomach couldn't take it anymore and I dry heaved, pressing my forehead against the controls as I retched and gasped for breath. For once I was glad I hadn't eaten anything that day, though it didn't make my stomach feel any better.

I'd managed to right the tail from spinning, but the wind had grown so strong at the wizard's command that now it was pulling the helicopter in a swerving, faltering circle around the tower. I pushed the controls to move forward again—properly this time—but only succeeded in spinning faster around the tower—the wind was too strong for the helicopter to break free. "Come on!" I pleaded, my voice lost in the gale, but the helicopter continued to veer around the tower once—twice—I looked down in panic to see Saruman lower his outstretched arms and point his staff at the careening helicopter. A reddish light appeared at the end of his staff, forming a sort of gleaming fireball; what was he d—

BOOM.

A searing heat exploded near my face, and the helicopter pitched to the side so violently I thought it might roll over entirely. Broken glass stung at my skin, and my scream was swallowed up by a howl of wind. Freezing air shattered through the helicopter, sucking the breath from my lungs until stars danced behind my eyes. I screamed again as the helicopter began losing altitude, screamed and screamed until I was struggling to breathe—desperately I fumbled at the controls with frozen hands, and I finally looked to my left to see what Saruman had done and— _there was a hole in the door._

I couldn't believe it. There was a goddamn gaping _hole_ in the helicopter door!

Saruman's attack had shattered the glass and twisted the metal under the window, leaving a horrible burning smell in the cockpit that even the howling wind couldn't get rid of.

"Oh, come _on!"_ I screamed in absolute desperation as the helicopter leveled off, still being pulled involuntarily around the tower in the wind. I gasped for breath as it careened from side to side like a sailboat in a hurricane. "Come _ON!_ You—threw—a _fireball—_ at me?!"

Caught in the magical wind hurling me around the tower, I risked a glance down at the wizard—and bit back another scream as a second ball of fire narrowly missed me. It flew wildly off into the distance, only just missing the rotors spinning above me before disappearing into the roiling black clouds overhead.

"Damn it!" I yelled, my voice cracking with hysteria. " _None of this was in the movie!"_

I tried again to escape the magical gale Saruman had conjured, pulling at the lever on my left and pushing the control in front of me forward; but the wind was too strong. The rotors strained with the effort, and an unpleasant groaning sound came from the engine behind me.

In a panic, I looked down at the tower one last time, and was relieved to see that Gandalf had gotten to his feet. I let out a grateful sigh—at least he was okay, for now anyway, though his staff was nowhere to be seen. Gandalf stepped forward slowly; it looked like he was yelling something at Saruman. The White Wizard paused in his attack on my helicopter to face him.

The wind around the tower faltered ever so slightly. I breathed in sharply—Gandalf was distracting him on purpose—this was my chance—

 _"Now!"_ I screamed, pulling at the controls again, and this time the helicopter broke free of the gale. The helicopter tore off into the sky, as fast as I dared to go.

My hands shook on the controls, but I was moving steadily now—at least, steadily enough that I didn't immediately fear for my life. The helicopter was flying over the grounds—the underground pits, the orchards, the long dirt road leading away and finally— _finally—_ the circular gate at the edge of Isengard.

I took a shuddering breath, hardly able to believe it. I escaped.

I did it.

I was free.

* * *

 _I should have stolen the tank._

This was by far the most difficult, terrifying, ridiculous thing I had ever done.

And I'd had no idea that piloting a helicopter could be so _loud._ The spinning of the blades made a wild roar around the helicopter, and the freezing wind ripped through the hole in the door and into my hair as I flew, threatening to burst my eardrums and making my face and fingers numb with cold.

Even louder than all that was my thundering heartbeat, which hadn't slowed down since the moment I'd taken off. It was pounding through my skull, making me dizzy—although from fear or excitement I couldn't tell.

The helicopter lurched violently as a freezing current of air slammed into the rotors. Scrabbling at the controls, I managed to slow my downward descent, and worked at the yaw pedals until the tail stopped spinning.

Maybe it had been a stupid thought, but I'd assumed that once I was out in the open, and all I had to do was fly in a straight line, things would get _easier._

They hadn't.

Gusts of wind were constantly buffeting the helicopter up and down without warning, and every now and again the tail would veer alarmingly to the left or right seemingly without cause. My hands were numb on the controls as I constantly tried to adjust the rotors, tail, and throttle. I knew if anyone from my world looked up and saw a helicopter flying like this, they'd assume the pilot was blackout drunk.

I still couldn't get a proper hang of the controls, either, though at least I hadn't hit anything yet. That had to count for something. There were a few near misses, though, as I cleared the steep hills surrounding Saruman's tower; the wind had risen up angrily around me, and I'd nearly crashed into a canopy of trees as a particularly violent gust of wind sent the helicopter's nose plummeting downward.

The black stormclouds from Saruman's spell followed me miles and miles from the tower, making the wind even wilder. It took nearly a half hour of flying as fast as I dared before I lost the stormclouds in the distance, where the rolling hills of forest had swallowed up Saruman's tower.

Finally, all traces of Isengard and Saruman were left behind. I tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but my breath hitched in my lungs; I knew I wasn't in the clear yet.

After all, I was lost.

I squinted ahead, looking for signs of civilization on the ground below me. The hills had given way to mountains in the distance to my right, and below me they were thinning gradually into rocky, rolling plains. There were no signs of life whatsoever. _Should I just keep flying straight until I run out of fuel? Or try to land now, and take my chances? There has to be some civilization—_

My thoughts flew out of my head as a strong current of air slammed against the pilot's window, cracking the glass further and sending the entire helicopter careening sideways. I leapt at the controls, and after a long moment of cursing and lever-pulling, the rotors angling up and down, the nose bobbing and tail swerving, the helicopter righted itself again. "Will—you—stop— _doing—_ that?" I hissed at the dashboard venomously. " _Honestly!"_

If only I had Nathan's book, I thought. Or, more specifically, the map Tarbyn had ripped out—then I might have been able to find a destination. But I didn't have the map. I didn't even know how to land, and I was in the middle of nowhere. So stopping now wasn't an option. But what then? Where could I go? The world spread out below me, unending and empty and strange. "Oh my God," I breathed faintly. "I'm lost in a helicopter in Middle Earth. What do I— _how_ do I…oh, my _God…_ "

My vision blurred as panic threatened to overwhelm me. "What do I do now?"

 _"Go back?" he thought. "No good at all! Go sideways? Impossible! Go forward? Only thing to do. On we go!"_

The words came to me quite suddenly, and I found myself smiling despite myself. My panic cooled slightly; I was able to breathe again. The words were from my old favorite book, _The Hobbit,_ though it had been years since I'd read it. I remembered poring over the story as a little kid, my hands nearly tearing at the pages in concern as Bilbo struggled to find his way out of the caves under Goblin Town. Admittedly, being lost in a helicopter was a pretty strange comparison to make. But still, the words came back to me nonetheless, and my hands steadied themselves on the helicopter's controls.

"Only thing to do," I repeated out loud, my voice shaking slightly. "On we go!"

* * *

I wasn't sure how much time was passing; my phone, of course, was long dead and despite the sheer number of dials and buttons on the helicopter's dashboard, there was no sign of a clock. So I continued onward, every few minutes leaping to correct the helicopter's flight whenever the wind changed or an unexpected gust hit the rotors above me.

There was no sign of civilization.

 _If_ I _was living in Middle Earth,_ I decided, _I'd live near the mountains. Snowmelt for water and whatnot, right?_ With this vaguely in mind I drifted closer to the mountain range on my right, though I still kept them at a good distance—it seemed like the wind got wilder and less predictable when I flew too close to the mountains. Did that have something to do with the change in altitude? The air temperature, maybe? I wished I'd taken a meteorology course in college; it might have helped me now. Hell, I wished I'd taken flight lessons most of all. But _no_ ; my mom had to insist on a _business_ degree, I thought bitterly, though admittedly my desired major—violin performance—wouldn't have been very helpful in this situation either.

The sun crept forward in the sky. The tiny meter on the fuel gauge drifted lower and lower as I went. How far had I gone? And how far could I keep flying? The manual said on a full tank the helicopter could make it nearly three hundred and fifty miles, but the tank hadn't been full when I set out, and I imagined that a hole being ripped in the helicopter door didn't exactly work wonders for the gas mileage.

Besides, I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep this up. I was hungry, cold, thirsty beyond belief, desperately tired, and getting whinier by the minute.

"Come _on,_ Middle Earth," I complained, trying not to notice how the clouds looked like mashed potatoes, the river in the distance looked like gravy and the trees below me looked like steamed broccoli. "I'm _starving._ Let me find some _civilization._ I'll take anything."

Still, there was nothing, as far as the eye could see.

I itched to go faster, rocketing through the air until I found a city, a town, even a single farmhouse, but I knew I shouldn't push my luck. As the day wore on, I slowed down bit by bit until I was going barely fifty miles an hour—slow for a helicopter, or I assumed so by how high the speedometer allowed—but I wanted to be careful. The vehicle was lurching and veering worse than ever, and I began to wonder if Saruman's magical gale and the hole in the door were beginning to take their toll on the poor helicopter. Maybe it was because I was well and truly running out of fuel now, and the helicopter was on its last legs. Or maybe it was all in my head, my weariness making me jumpy and my coordination worse than ever.

I jumped as a shrill beeping filled the cockpit. I was running out of gas.

"Well," I told myself faintly, struggling to stay calm, "you're lost anyway, aren't you, so this place is as good as anywhere…"

But I still didn't know how to land.

I slowed down even more as I reached for the instruction manual. "All you have to do is figure out how to hover," I said reassuringly, "and then descend until you hit the ground. Right?"

Suddenly the rotors faltered. The helicopter jolted violently and the manual fell out of my hands, swept into the backseat by the wind.

"No, no, no—come on, stop falling!" I pulled at the throttle desperately, and the rotors sprang back to life, though not as fast as before. The engine made an unpleasant groan behind me. I was losing altitude. I slowed down again, trying desperately to stop the helicopter from moving forward as the ground got closer. "Just— _hover,_ damn it—come on!" How did pilots _do_ it? It was impossible!

That didn't keep me from trying, though. I pulled forward and back on the levers, angled the failing rotors this way and that and only succeeded in pitching the helicopter forward and back so violently that my head started spinning. If anything, that made my descent even _faster_ —there was no hope for it—I was going to crash—feverishly I pulled my seatbelt tighter as the ground came rushing up to swallow me—I squeezed my eyes shut—

 _CRASH._

I screamed as the helicopter's runners tore through the earth, jerking my body against the seatbelt so hard my head slammed into the dashboard and my vision flashed red. Rock and mud exploded violently across the windshield, cracking the glass. The helicopter's nose pitched forward and to the right, its body tilting to the side and the rotors tearing into the ground as they struggled to continue spinning. I held the controls in a death grip as the helicopter plowed forward, farther and farther, losing speed until it finally careened to the right, fell over on its side, and came to a shuddering halt.

It took me a minute or two longer to stop screaming.

I pried my hands off the controls, struggled out of my seatbelt, and fell limply into the passenger's seat below me. With enormous effort, I stood and wrenched open the pilot's door, which was now above my head. A shower of broken glass from the window fell into my face, and I winced and sputtered, pausing to shake the larger pieces from my hair.

Climbing out of the helicopter took the better part of ten minutes. Finally I managed to hoist myself out of the ruined door, where I tumbled onto the grass, breathing heavily as though I'd just run a marathon.

 _You did it._ My stomach heaved and my head spun and I clutched at the grass with both hands, grateful beyond words to be back on solid ground.

After a moment, I tried to stand up. The world spun beneath me, and I fell back into the grass. And for the second time in my life, I passed out.


	9. Chapter 8

I'm sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up! But it's here now, and hopefully the next one won't take quite as long. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed and favorited this story- it means so much to know people are enjoying this mess of a story!

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Chapter 8

I woke up to find myself curled up in a ball in the grass, a cricket crawling leisurely across my face.

With a scream I was on my feet, scrabbling wildly at my face until my heartbeat calmed back down. I looked around blankly, trying uselessly to get my bearings after such a rude awakening. My throat was scratchy, and my blood felt sluggish in my veins. _Probably dehydrated,_ I thought, my heart sinking. _When was the last time you had any water?_ I swallowed, but the back of my throat was dry as a desert and I wound up coughing violently. Wincing, I pressed a grubby hand to my forehead, feeling a hot, stinging lump on my temple. Had I had a concussion yesterday? I wasn't sure, and I guessed there was no way of knowing now. "God, you're a mess, Bee," I muttered.

I studied my surroundings with bleary eyes. It was morning, I realized. I must have spent the entire night out cold on the muddy ground. And just behind me was the helicopter. _Oh._ I let out a shaky breath. _Right._

The helicopter was lying on its side where I had left it yesterday, its tail and propellers bent at violent angles. Huge gashes and divots had been gouged into the earth where the blades had struck as it fell. The whole thing looked so violent now, so utterly unreal; my gut twisted at the sight and I turned away.

The sun was emerging over the ridge of the mountains in the distance, and I stared around me for a long while, marveling at the endless expanse of grassland.

It hadn't really sunk in, when I was locked in that tiny cell in Isengard, that the whole _world_ around me was no longer the same. Or maybe it had, but I just hadn't realized what it meant until now. Despite myself, part of me had felt like all I had to do was cross the mountains surrounding the tower, and I'd be back in Texas: just past the ridge of the horizon I'd see the outline of downtown skyscrapers, interstates and cars and telephone lines…

I sat down, my heart heavy, and blinked back the tears prickling behind my eyes. The world extended around me in every direction, enormous and wild: the wide blue sky, the unending hills…suddenly I felt very small. Listlessly, I tore a handful of grass from the ground, letting the pieces drift away on the breeze. I watched them float away, my head in my hands.

Now that I was free from Isengard, what was I going to do? I didn't know where I was, or where the nearest civilization was, only that I was a long way from where I'd began. _Safe from Saruman, at least._ That was something.

Food and water should be my first priority, I decided. I wondered if there was a water bottle in the helicopter that I'd missed among the camping supplies. Steeling myself, I approached the helicopter and hoisted myself clumsily back up to the pilot's door.

The inside of the vehicle was in almost as bad shape as the outside. The supplies I'd stolen were scattered every which way, covered in pieces of broken glass from the windshield and pilot's window. I allowed myself to tumble inside, where I stood in a crouch on what used to be the passenger's-side wall.

Carefully, I began shifting through the supplies, and tossed whatever still looked useful up and out the open pilot's door to land on the grass outside. Up went the box of emergency flares, the Kevlar vest, the box of ammunition, and the books I'd grabbed from Saruman's stores. Admittedly, the books didn't look particularly useful—one was a science textbook, one was a book of American poetry, and the third was a yellowed library copy of _Gulliver's Travels_ —but I couldn't bring myself to leave them in the belly of the helicopter. Nathan's words came back to me again: _I always carry a good book with me when I leave the house. It's like having an old friend with you everywhere you go._

Tears threatened to spill from my eyes again. Nathan would be furious with me if he ever found out I lost his book. Or would he just be jealous that I was experiencing his favorite tale first-hand? Would he even _believe_ me, I wondered? Would anyone? I knew instinctively that Caroline and John wouldn't. Kidnapped by a wizard—they'd think I was crazy. They'd give each other those _looks,_ the ones that conveyed all the dismissive things I always feared they said about me when I wasn't there, the looks that hurt more than their harshest words. I sighed. My mom certainly wouldn't believe me, either. And why should she? My mom was all business and logic; there was no room for magic there.

I swallowed as I thought of something else: they _definitely_ wouldn't believe me at work. What excuse could I possibly give my boss when I made it back? _I'm sorry, sir, but I was in Middle Earth. I would've called, see, but the wizard who kidnapped me didn't have cell service in his tower._ It was already Wednesday—no, Tuesday—I pressed my palms into my eyes, trying to control my breathing; this was the second day of work I was missing in a row. Instead of going to work Monday morning, I'd stolen a helicopter and flown across the wilderness of a land that wasn't supposed to exist.

God, I was so fired.

With a sharp shake of my head, I tried to stop worrying about it. _Nothing you can do now, at any rate. Focus on getting home first, then come up with a story to tell._

I dug through the electronics I'd stolen and the camping gear strewn about the floor, unsure of what I might need. There was an entire tent, folded into a compact cylinder under the passenger's seat, but it was so heavy and bulky that I dismissed it outright. A thermal sleeping bag, however, I kept; after shaking the pieces of broken glass off it, I stuffed a flashlight, compass and Swiss Army knife into its folds. There _was_ a canteen, but it was empty; I shook it upside down over my mouth despondently, but there wasn't a drop of water inside. I also found what looked like a miniature water purifier, which would have been more exciting if there'd been any water to use it on.

Of the electronics I'd stolen, not much looked useful. _I should've looked more carefully at what I was taking,_ I reflected, studying a set of fancy-looking walkie talkies, still in their plastic packaging. With a shrug, I stuffed them into the sleeping bag, but left behind the rest.

With the sleeping bag and my violin case slung across my shoulders, I made the awkward climb back out of the helicopter.

I sighed, looking at my strange array of supplies, and put my hands on my hips. It was time to get moving.

But first…I bit my lip. I didn't know where I was, or how long it would take me to find civilization. The smartest thing to do would be to try to find help by any means necessary, wouldn't it? I winced, regarding the box of emergency flares for a long moment, then made up my mind.

I was far enough from Saruman by now; he wouldn't find me here. I was easily two hundred miles from Isengard. Even a wizard couldn't reach me _that_ far away, right? I nodded uneasily, opening the box of flares.

After skimming the instruction guide—complete with diagrams, thankfully—I removed the plastic black gun from the case and wedged one of the flares inside. For a moment, I clutched the loaded flare gun in my hands, closing my eyes in desperation. _Let someone find me—please—anyone, anyone but Saruman—_

I pointed the flare at the sky and pulled the trigger. A noise like a firework echoed around me, and I flinched as smoke and sparks exploded upward. The reddish ball of fire lingered in the air high above me, the dark smoke trail stark against the cloudy sky even in the bright daylight.

Heart pounding as though I'd just run a marathon, I packed up the flares and gathered my supplies. It took a while, but I managed to arrange the sleeping bag on my back with its long shoulder strap, and I slung my violin case over that, feeling rather like a turtle with a too-large shell. The rest of my supplies I gathered up in my arms, and with a last uneasy look back at the helicopter and the reddish line of smoke fading into the sky above me, I began to walk.

* * *

My progress was slow. With every step, my sandals snagged in the tall grass and my supplies grew heavier on my back. Was I even walking in the right direction? Doubts nagged at me, but I continued onward; I hadn't seen any signs of civilization as I flew yesterday, which meant that my best hope was ahead of me, following the mountain range far to my right.

I'd hoped to find something edible before long: berries or fruit trees or even patches of clover in the grass—but there was nothing. The grass was dry and prickly and uniform, and there were no trees as far as the eye could see. The only other plants were the occasional withered, windblown bushes; even if they'd had berries or nuts among their dark leaves, I wouldn't have trusted them not to poison me.

It had been well over a day since my last meal, and I could practically feel myself wasting away. I was so hungry I contemplated eating a handful of the dry grass below my feet—but the thought made my throat ache with thirst. Swallowing was getting more and more difficult, and I knew I would need to find water soon. The worst part was when, late in the afternoon, I had to stop and pee; admittedly it felt marginally less awkward than peeing in a bucket, but I was rather alarmed by how little liquid seemed to be left in my body at all.

I should have known better than to think I could survive off the land like this. I didn't know what I was doing, and there was nothing out here—nothing at all.

The land was monotonous, quiet and utterly still. No trees, no birds, no wind…The entire landscape felt haunted, somehow, as though it were _mourning_ something. I shook my head sharply—what a strange thing to think. I'd obviously been alone with my thoughts too long.

In the overwhelming silence, I hummed the melodies of songs as I walked, mostly snippets of pieces I'd been learning on the violin. I tapped the beats with my fingers on the box of emergency flares I had wedged under my arm, and wished with all my heart that I was back home with my violin.

My supplies were getting heavier. I had to stop more and more frequently to readjust the bulky packages in my arms and sleeping bag on my back.

The sun was just starting to sink over the horizon when I collapsed onto the grass, exhausted. I'd probably only made it a few miles in the whole day, but I didn't think I could walk another step. My feet were covered in blisters where my sandals had bitten into my skin, and my muscles ached.

After a moment of deliberation, I set off another emergency flare. This one shone even more visibly in the darkening sky, and I jumped at the way the gunshot sound echoed over the empty hills.

A chilly wind hissed through the grass, and I got the strangest feeling that this place knew I didn't belong here, that I wasn't welcome. _How dare you come to this quiet, ghostly place,_ it seemed to say, _and disturb the air with explosions and chemicals and smoke—_

"I've definitely been walking too long," I said out loud. I shook off my uneasiness, and set up camp.

Really, my "camp" was just my sleeping bag laid out next to my pile of supplies, but it would do for the night. I sat cross-legged on my sleeping bag, staring out at the darkening sky and clutching the flashlight to my chest.

I felt distinctly uncomfortable. I'd never slept outdoors before—I didn't count the previous night, as I'd been out cold long before night fell. I'd never even been camping. When my family traveled, we'd stayed in hotels, and when we'd gone out into the wilderness it was usually part of a guided tour or something. I'd grown up to love the outdoors and the wilderness, but I'd never experienced it like this, not since I was a little girl lost on a family trip, running after chipmunks and making imaginary friends with trees.

Nervously, I burrowed deeper into my sleeping bag, humming to myself again to combat the oppressive silence weighing down on me. I lay stiffly on my back, clutching my violin case to my chest and using the folded Kevlar vest as a pillow.

I watched as heavy clouds rolled in over the mountains to blot out the stars. Before long, the entire sky was enveloped in an unending, sickly gray, and I was encased in utter darkness. I pulled the thermal covers closer around my chin; it was surprisingly chilly for a summer night, and the weight was comforting. It made me feel less exposed to the broad night sky.

Something rustled in the grass near my head, and I jolted upright, biting back a scream. In an instant my flashlight was on and waving back and forth through the grass—

It was a mouse.

I huffed sharply under my breath, watching it burrow through the grass a few feet from my sleeping bag. I'd never been afraid of the dark before, but this…I waved my flashlight across the hills cautiously.

I'd never experienced darkness like this.

I stayed upright, flashlight trained on the horizon, until I calmed back down. Stiffly I retreated back under my covers and turned off the flashlight. The darkness was so palpable now that I could practically feel it physically pressing against me.

I couldn't get comfortable. Every time I closed my eyes I flinched involuntarily, seeing flashes of movement flying at my face: fireballs and shards of glass and the swinging blur of a wizard's staff—shaking, I curled tighter around my violin case and squeezed my eyes shut.

Saruman was far away. He couldn't hurt me here.

 _Besides,_ my traitorous brain supplied, _there are plenty of other things that could hurt you here._ I wondered suddenly if there were any wild animals out here—mountain lions or wolves or some horrible dark creatures unique to Middle Earth…because if wizards were real, and magic was real, then that meant goblins were real too, didn't it? I flinched more violently than ever, and reached a hand into my violin case to grasp the handle of the pistol I'd stored inside. It did little to comfort me.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I hated this.

I hated Middle Earth.

I missed home so badly that it had become a physical ache in my chest, and I began to sob bitterly into my violin case. I cried and cried until my whole body was shaking uncontrollably and my breath was coming in shuddering hiccups and gasps.

Hopeless and miserable, I eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of food and water and home.

* * *

Something was moving toward me. I felt the slightest of vibrations under my makeshift pillow, like footsteps, and heard the faintest of jostling sounds. "Go 'way," I mumbled thickly, my tongue feeling heavy and dry in my mouth. The jostling grew louder.

Suddenly a terrible smell flooded my senses, and I felt a hot, snuffling _breath_ on my face. My eyes flew open inches away from a horse's snout.

I screamed.

The horse shied back, filling the air with the stamping of hooves and the jangling of reins. _"Get back!"_ I screamed blindly, still half asleep. I leapt to my feet, nearly falling over as my legs tangled in the sleeping bag. " _Stay away from me!"_ My heart thundered painfully in my chest and I rubbed at my eyes blearily, trying to get my bearings.

"Ah, good. You were sleeping so soundly I feared you were dead."

A stranger was observing me tranquilly from the horse's saddle, patting his horse's neck as the animal calmed down. I stared wild-eyed back at him, clutching my violin case to my chest protectively. Obscured as he was by a long, tattered cloak and hat, the rider could have been _anyone_ , anyone at all. Could Saruman have really found me so quickly? Was this one of his servants, a man like Einar, who would take me back to Isengard? I wasn't going to go back there, I wasn't, I wasn't, _I wasn't—_

"I said _get back!"_ I screamed as the man dismounted his horse. "Don't come any closer!" Fighting down a cold wave of panic, I dug in my violin case for the stolen pistol and pointed it at him. I wouldn't— _couldn't—_ shoot at him, I knew, but maybe I could intimidate him enough to keep him away.

Instead, the stranger ignored the gun entirely, patting his horse's neck soothingly and leaning to whisper into its twitching ear. After a moment, he ventured forward, blinking owlishly at me, and bent to observe the sleeping bag lying in a heap between us. He touched the thermal fabric experimentally, making a sound of mild disapproval as he straightened up. "What sort of material is this?" he asked curiously, looking from me to the sleeping bag. "It has a strange texture."

I stared at him. The pistol was still in my shaking hand, pointing at the man's heart. Suddenly feeling rather stupid, I let my arm fall back to my side. "Um. I don't know," I stammered. "Polyester, or something."

I watched the stranger carefully, confused by his vacant, mumbling voice and odd mannerisms. Whoever he was, he didn't seem like much of a threat anymore. The man was now holding up the Kevlar vest curiously, lifting his floppy hat to squint at it in the morning light. He was old, I realized with surprise, old and entirely unarmed. What in the world was he _doing_ out here? His thin frame was swallowed up by a truly hideous brown cloak, so ragged and patched that it looked like the remains of a dozen different cloaks sewn together. He didn't look like a murderer or a servant of Saruman or anything, more like an eccentric homeless man. I let out a slow breath and stowed the pistol back in my violin case.

"What is this?" The man's crooked nose scrunched in confusion at the bulletproof vest. "It is heavy. Not armor, surely?"

"Uh, yeah," I muttered in reply, my voice painfully hoarse. "Yeah, it's kinda like armor, I guess."

"I suppose it _might_ stop an arrow, if put to the test," the man muttered. "You come from far away, with possessions such as these," he added, folding the vest carefully before setting it down. "And you have been through quite an ordeal. Yes, quite an ordeal."

I stepped back warily as the man studied me, but he didn't seem bothered by my unease. He stepped forward, observing me like I was a specimen under a microscope. I winced and stumbled back as he approached me, his rather bulgy brown eyes widening. " _Tree-friend?"_ he muttered incredulously, stroking his beard. I shrunk back as he loomed over me. "Hmm. Strange _—_ "

"Do you mind?" I said rather shrilly, scrambling to put more distance between myself and this crazy man.

"Eh?" He finally seemed to realize he was making me nervous. "One moment." Mumbling under his breath, the man turned back to his horse, his ragged brown cloak catching in the tall grass as he went. He grabbed a few things from his saddlebags and walked back toward me, his movements cautious and slow. Wordlessly he set the items in the grass near my sleeping bag and backed away carefully again. Then he smiled at me from under his floppy hat, gesturing at me to move forward.

I was reminded distinctly of an animal trainer at the Dallas Zoo.

 _Fine. I'll play along._ With a sigh, I walked over to the sleeping bag and looked at the items he'd set down for me. "Oh!"

The man had set down a small burlap sack and a strange sort of leather flask. I gasped. _Water?_ Suddenly I was so thirsty I couldn't even think. I fell upon the flask, drinking and drinking until I was out of breath, my stomach aching and strength returning at last to my sluggish limbs. The water was musty and tasted strongly of leather, but I didn't care. I felt life flowing back into my veins, and I let out a delirious laugh as I sank down on the rumpled sleeping bag.

When the flask was empty, I turned to the burlap sack the stranger had set down. It was full of some kind of flatbread, each piece wrapped in what looked like thin, pliant sheets of tree bark. I ate one tentatively, then another, marveling at the slight taste of grass and honeysuckle. In my half-starved state, they were easily the most delicious things I'd ever eaten, and I continued eating until I could barely move.

Finally, I looked back up at the man, who was absently watching a rabbit hop through the grass a few yards off.

"Who _are_ you?" I burst out, coughing at the strange sensation of being hydrated and full.

"Eh?" The man blinked, as though he'd forgotten I was there. "Oh. I am Radagast."

"I'm Beatrice," I said, walking up and sticking out my hand. The man stared down at it with the same confused expression he'd shown the Kevlar vest. I flushed and dropped my hand back to my side. "Um. Anyway, thank you. For the food and water." I cleared my throat. "Really, thank you."

Radagast shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, waving my words away with an impatient hand. I got the sense that he'd been without human interaction for much longer than I had. "It was no trouble," he muttered.

"Yes it was," I exclaimed, annoyed that he was so dismissive of having saved my life. "I…I could have starved to death out here. And are you going to be able to find more water? I drank all yours." Guilt swept over me and I buried my face in my hands. "God, I'm sorry—and there's hardly any bread left in your bag there either." I handed the remainder of his supplies back to him uncomfortably. "I'm sorry if—I mean, I shouldn't've had so much…"

"I know the land well. I will be able to find more water and food on my journey home," he mumbled, patting his horse's mane as he spoke. Like Einar, he seemed uneasy looking me in the eye.

"Oh, well—good." I ran a hand down my face, relieved. "Where _is_ your home, then?"

He gestured airily into the distance, still not looking at me. "Across the Misty Mountains. Near the forest of Mirkwood."

"Can you take me with you?" The words were out of my mouth before I'd even considered them.

"Eh?" Radagast turned to me at last, his eyebrows disappearing under the brim of his floppy hat. "Wh-why would you want to accompany me, girl? My home is several weeks away by horseback. Not an easy journey."

"Oh. Well…" I tugged at my tangled hair uncertainly. "It's just…I mean, I don't know where I am—I don't have anywhere to go, and I need to find my way home, _somehow_ …" I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to control the desperation in my voice. "Please, I can't just keep wandering around out here, you saw how I was doing on my own, I'd have started to death if you hadn't—"

"Hmm! Well, you cannot stay out here alone," the man interrupted, as though the idea had just occurred to him. "You must get somewhere safe."

"That's what I was—" I put my head in my hands and sighed. "Yeah. Yes, I agree. So can't I come with you?"

"My home is likely not safe at all."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

Radagast shook his head, the brim of his hat flopping back and forth. "There are few safe places this far into the Wild. No homely houses here, but one."

I blinked as I registered what he said. "There…there _is_ one?" I stammered eagerly. "Where is it?"

"Several days' ride to the north."

"Several days' ride?" I repeated. Maybe I could make it, if he helped me collect more food first…but on foot, that would be at least a week, maybe two—

"Yes, it is not far out of my way," the man continued slowly. He scratched at his beard for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind. "Yes, very well. I will take you there."

"You…you _will?"_ I exclaimed. "I—I don't know what to say—thank you, oh my God, thank you so much, you have _no_ idea what this means to me, Rasputin—"

"Radagast."

"Right, right, sorry." I bounced on the balls of my feet, suddenly too giddy to focus. "Well—oh my gosh, thank you—wow—just let me get my things, then!" I laughed breathlessly, stunned by my good fortune. I was saved, I was saved! I was going to find somewhere safe, I was going to find my way home!

I gathered up my scattered supplies from the grass and rolled up my sleeping bag as Radagast stared up vacantly into the sky. I paused in my packing to follow his eyes, where a flock of birds was flying past. Darting to and fro, their black wings and screaming voices cut through the air sharply and made my skin prickle. "Radagast?" I said hesitantly. "Is everything alright?"

He jumped when I addressed him. "Yes, yes. It is probably nothing." But the man sent me a sharp look from under his wild eyebrows. "I wonder if sending your fireworks into the sky was a good idea," he added after a moment, watching the flock of birds circle overhead and disappear into the distance to the south.

"You saw my emergency flares?" I asked, smiling rather proudly. "Then they worked, after all!"

"Yes," the man said slowly, a spacey look back in his eyes. "They worked, indeed." He shook himself after a moment, as though he'd forgotten where he was. "Let us move on. The sooner the better." Still looking rather flustered, he helped me arrange some of my things into his saddlebags.

"Thank you," I repeated earnestly, still overwhelmed by his kindness. "Look, I'll pay you back, for helping me. I don't know how—I'll find a job, somehow, when we get to…where are we going exactly?"

"Rivendell," Radagast said. "The Last Homely House."

"Rivendell," I said slowly. The name was familiar; I closed my eyes as I tried to think. It was in the movie, wasn't it? And—wait, it was from _The Hobbit!_ "There are _elves_ in Rivendell, aren't there?" I asked eagerly. "It's like a…a valley, isn't it? With trees and waterfalls and music?"

"Yes, you've summarized it well," Radagast said dryly, adjusting the horse's saddle. For such an ancient, rail-thin man, he leapt onto the horse's back with surprising grace. I slung my sleeping bag and violin case onto my shoulders and, after some awkward stumbling and cursing, managed to clamber onto the horse behind him.

"Hold onto my shoulders," Radagast said. "Poppy doesn't seem to like you much." I winced as his horse tossed its head violently, as though agreeing with him. Awkwardly I reached up and held onto the fraying cloak, and with a jostle of the reins we were off.

Hope bloomed in my chest as the land began to drift slowly past. Gandalf hadn't been able to help me, but maybe the elves in Rivendell could. And even if they couldn't...I let out a breathless laugh. They were _elves._ Real, living elves- it would almost be worth not going home just to see them. I frowned at the thought, but I couldn't deny the truth of it, or shake the excitement bubbling up in my heart.

 _I'm going to see the elves!_

* * *

Let me know what you think of Radagast so far. I hated the Hobbit movies' version of him; I always pictured him as being weird and out of touch, but not nearly as bad as what the movies came up with; he just seemed like a quiet, awkward, well-meaning guy who hasn't spent time with actual humans in a really long time. I've tried to let him keep his dignity, and hopefully I've succeeded.

Don't forget to review! I really appreciate y'all's feedback, advice and questions. Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 9

Surprise, everyone! Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

I'm so sorry for putting this story off for so long. I've had a pretty hectic few months, but believe me, I never abandoned this story. I've been experimenting with plot threads and writing several scenes for future chapters, and I swear, y'all, I'm gonna finish this story eventually.

I really appreciate the reviews, favorites, alerts, etc. from all of you. It means so much, and motivates me to (very slowly) keep this story going. I can't say the next chapter will be out soon, but it won't be nearly as long of a wait this time! Please let me know what you think!

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Chapter 9

"So," I said awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. "You said your home was near Milkwood?"

Radagast jumped slightly, as though he'd forgotten I was sitting behind him. "Mirkwood," he corrected, without turning to look back at me.

"Right, right." I adjusted my grip on his cloak, tapping my fingers idly on the rough fabric. "So, uh, what's it like there?"

"Hmm." My traveling companion contemplated this for a while. He didn't seem to be in any hurry to have a proper conversation, and it was beginning to grate on my nerves; I had to stop myself from tugging on his cloak like an impatient toddler. "Mirkwood…" he said after a minute or two, "is not what it once was."

"In what way?" I pressed.

"Hmm." Radagast shrugged. I waited for him to respond, but he just gave a noncommittal grunt and fell silent. I stifled a groan.

"Ah!" he exclaimed after a moment, and I looked up eagerly, wondering if he was finally going to talk to me. Instead, he reached out a hand and whistled lightly.

"What-?" I began, but Radagast shushed me and whistled again. I stared at him in confusion for a moment, then bit back a gasp as a bird landed on the man's outstretched finger.

"Hello, my friend," he said softly, keeping his hand extremely still despite the jostling of Poppy's hooves. Radagast leaned forward and whispered something to the bird. It was just an ordinary bird—at least I thought it was—but it was bobbing its head up and down as though it was actually _listening_ to Radagast's words.

"What are you _d-?"_

" _Shh!"_ he breathed, leaning closer as the bird chirped something back to him. "Ah! Is that so?" Radagast murmured. "These are dark tidings, indeed." The bird bobbed its head and whistled.

"Are you really _talking_ to it?" I said loudly, and with a startled flutter of wings the bird was gone. Radagast turned and glared at me. I winced.

"I was _attempting_ to speak with her, yes," he said, his tone not quite so mild as before.

"What are you, Snow White?" I exclaimed. "You can't just talk to animals."

Radagast flicked the reins idly, facing forward again. "That is untrue. Anyone can talk to animals," he said sagely.

I rolled my eyes so hard I was surprised they didn't pop out of my head. "Okay, fine, anyone can _talk_ to them," I said exasperatedly. "But how did it talk _back?_ And how did you know what it was saying, how did it understand you? And the way it just landed on your finger like that…" I gestured wildly into the air, lost for words. "Can everyone do that here? I mean, is that normal, in Middle Earth?"

"I do not believe so," he said, then scratched at his beard thoughtfully. " _You_ do not hail from Middle Earth."

"Well, no," I said hesitantly.

"Hmm. I thought not." Radagast sounded entirely unconcerned; he could have been talking about the weather. I braced myself for the inevitable interrogation—but he simply shrugged, flicked the reins, and continued on.

Not much time had passed before a sparrow flitted over and lighted on Poppy's mane. The horse flicked her ears in annoyance, but allowed the bird to perch there as Radagast whispered to it. Next came a cardinal, its red feathers standing out starkly as it rested on the man's brown-cloaked shoulder, chirping into his ear.

"What are they _saying?_ " I exclaimed at last, unable to take it anymore. Radagast looked up as the dragonfly he had been mumbling to flitted away.

"They are answering my questions," he said after a while.

"And what are you _asking_ them, then?" I demanded.

Radagast shrugged airily, his hat flopping over his eyes. "Questions."

I covered my face in my hands to stop myself from screaming.

* * *

We stopped only a few times throughout the day. Radagast had been right when he'd said he knew how to find more food and water in the wilderness. He dismounted here and there, seemingly at random, to pluck handfuls of berries from bushes or dig up small white roots from unassuming tufts of weeds. He even found drinking water, from hidden ponds and springs tucked away in the hilltops, which were gradually growing greener, with the occasional withered tree twisting out of the grass and rock.

I followed Radagast's lead as he pointed out (with plenty of mumbling and shrugging) which plants were safe to eat from and how to find the ripest berries to eat. It was actually kind of pleasant, having someone to talk to and learn from as I traveled; at the very least, it was better than my lonely, miserable wandering the day before.

As we gathered a rather meager dinner, I paused in our foraging, my arms full of dandelions and a lumpy root Radagast had called burdock, to find the man crouched low in the grass, talking to a field mouse, which had reared up on its tiny hind legs and was squeaking intently at him. Radagast nodded sagely, whispering urgently back and shooting a glance in my direction. I scowled, feeling oddly left out. _They're definitely gossiping about me_. I fretted for a moment, biting my lip self-consciously... _Oh, this is ridiculous,_ I snapped at myself. _It's a mouse, for Pete's sake._

Radagast patted the creature on the head fondly before straightening up as though nothing odd had happened. There was nothing to do but roll my eyes and keep gathering food; I knew by now that there was no getting answers out of him.

The sun was setting over the western plains when we came upon a rare grove of trees in a valley between two steep hills. "We shall rest here for the night," Radagast told me as Poppy came to a halt. By now I'd noticed that his horse seemed to respond to Radagast's vaguest of intentions, rather than commands made with reins and stirrups.

I dismounted clumsily, half-falling off Poppy's back as my sore muscles seized up in protest. Dragging myself to my feet, I looked around at the stunted, windblown trees. "Should we make a fire?" I asked hopefully, dropping the contents of my sleeping bag and violin case into a pile onto the grass.

"Oh, no, no," Radagast exclaimed, wringing his hands and looking around. "That is not a good idea."

My spirits sank. A cold wind was already biting through my flimsy, tattered blouse, and I knew it would only get colder as night fell. "Come on, I'm freezing," I whined, but Radagast waved a hand dismissively.

"Come now, it is a warm summer evening. Besides," he said, patting Poppy's neck reassuringly as he removed her saddle, "I wish for us to remain unseen this night."

I frowned. "Why are you worried, anyway? We're in the middle of nowhere. Who would see us?"

Radagast removed Poppy's harness and saddlebags carefully, taking his time. Poppy wandered off as the man began unpacking his bags, and I twitched impatiently as he fussily arranged his belongings in neat little rows in the grass. Without looking up, he shrugged and spoke at last. "The White Wizard would see us, of course. He is looking for you."

" _What?"_

"Hmm. The White Wizard has many eyes throughout these lands." He glanced from side to side into the dark undergrowth, and I shivered, suddenly certain that we were being watched.

"How do you know he's looking for me?" I said, my voice an octave higher than normal. "Don't tell me the sparrows and rabbits told you that." Radagast shrugged again, and I groaned, pressing my face into my hands. "I shouldn't have set off those emergency flares! I've ruined everything, haven't I?"

"I cannot say," Radagast said calmly, now spreading out his bedroll in the grass. He smoothed the ragged blanket out painstakingly, seemingly unaware of my panic. "I am almost certain that your fireworks yesterday alerted the White Wizard, as they alerted me," he added after awhile. "Nothing else in Middle Earth could resemble those remarkable flares. Even Gandalf's fireworks are nothing like them."

"Wait, _you_ know Gandalf?" I said, my voice still shaky. The man nodded. A ridiculous thought flitted through my mind, and I narrowed my eyes at him. "And you know Saruman too?" I ventured.

"Of course," Radagast said calmly. "He is one of my Order."

"Your order?" I repeated, my suspicions growing stronger. "What order?" He didn't answer; his buggy eyes were scanning the darkening skyline airily, as though he'd forgotten I was there again. I frowned. "Are you a wizard?" I said hesitantly.

"Hmm?" He jumped slightly, turning to blink at me in surprise. "Oh, yes, yes, of course. I am Radagast the Brown."

A cold, horrified feeling was seeping through my limbs. "Oh." I couldn't believe I'd been right. I took a step back. "And are you…are you more like Gandalf? Or Saruman?"

Radagast the Brown didn't answer. Instead he was staring distractedly into the darkness again, his expression rather vacant. I followed his gaze, which was focused on a firefly hovering over the grass. The insect let out a yellow flicker of light, bright in the dim evening air. With a delicate motion, the wizard plucked the firefly out of the grass with a thin, weathered hand and smiled gently, whispering under his breath. I watched him for a long moment, studying the tender expression on his face, and fought a sudden urge to laugh.

"You're nothing like Saruman, are you?" I asked. Radagast didn't answer; I wasn't sure he'd heard me. Sighing heavily, I unrolled my sleeping bag and sat down next to him. I felt ridiculous for even thinking it. As strange as he was, Radagast the Brown had to be the least threatening person I'd ever encountered.

"I had hoped you would tell me of your dealings with Saruman unprompted," the wizard said after a long while. The firefly on his palm flickered again, and flitted away into the darkness. "The White Wizard does not often show interest in mortal Men, or indeed anyone, of late. I wonder what his interest was in you."

Suddenly nervous, I hugged my knees to my chest. It was cold out, whatever Radagast said. "You already guessed that I wasn't from Middle Earth," I said. "That's because Saruman brought me here. From a city called Dallas, in another world." I hesitated, unsure of how to explain.

Radagast nodded. "Go on," he said calmly, still looking intently into the night sky. I took a deep breath to reassure myself, and continued. Telling my story grew easier with each word; it was cathartic, somehow, to confide in someone else, and Radagast's placid smiles and vacant nods of encouragement were very calming.

"Did you already know what Saruman was doing?" I asked curiously, after I'd explained as much as I could. The wizard hadn't seemed particularly surprised by my story.

The wizard shook his head after a while, suddenly looking decades older, his face thin and ragged in the shadows. "I was in Isengard not three months ago, at Saruman's bidding," he said, sounding tired. "I saw what was collected in the White Wizard's storerooms; I saw the fervor in his eyes. Yet I had believed—I had hoped…ah, but it is useless now. We can only contend with what _is,_ and what can be done."

"What _can_ be done, then?" I asked, but Radagast didn't answer. I sighed. I didn't have his convictions, and couldn't help but let guilt bubble up in my chest. If I hadn't told Saruman anything...if I'd hidden the book better, or destroyed it...if I had stayed in Isengard, and perhaps tried to destroy his collection of weaponry...

We sat in silence for a long time, neither of us eager to speak or to sleep just yet. The sky grew inky black, and I kept thinking that I could see the glint of black eyes in the trees, or that I could hear the heavy thud of footsteps followed by the swish of a long cloak in the shadows. I twitched helplessly on my sleeping bag, wanting to get out my flashlight but afraid of attracting attention, as Radagast had warned. He was staring unblinkingly into the shadows of the trees. Saruman's betrayal must not have been easy for him to take. "You must inform the Lord Elrond of Saruman's treachery," Radagast murmured at last. "As well as Gandalf's imprisonment."

I nodded, eager to do something that might help. "Do you think he'll be able to do anything? Would…uh, Lord Enron be able to help Gandalf? Or is there...I mean, is there anything _you_ can do for him?"

"Lord _Elrond,_ " he corrected placidly. "And I do not know. Perhaps."

I waited for the wizard to continue, but he didn't. I sighed, curling up in my sleeping bag and looking up at the night sky. There were so many stars here; the light pollution of Dallas was worlds away. I'd learned the constellations as a little kid, in my outdoorsy hiking phase, but looking up at the sky now, I didn't recognize any. The black sky spread endlessly above us, and I wondered how it could be so oppressively dark even with so many stars shining. Tears welled up in my eyes again, and I pressed my fists against my eyelids in exasperation, not wanting Radagast to see me cry.

I glanced over at the wizard surreptitiously. His shadowy profile hadn't moved an inch; he may as well have been turned to stone. I wondered if he'd fallen asleep sitting up, or if wizards even needed to sleep. Maybe he was just staring intently into the horizon like I had been, staring as though trying to pierce through the trees and hills to see something far out of reach. I sighed and rolled over, curling my knees up to my chest. The smell of grass and wet earth filled my nose, and the heavy, plasticky fabric of my Kevlar vest pillow dug into my face. It took a long time for me to fall asleep.

* * *

I was woken up by Poppy's snuffling breath on my face again. I sat up and rubbed at my face quickly to hide the wetness on my cheeks.

"Mornin', Radagast, I muttered. "Mornin', Poppy." Radagast didn't answer, preoccupied as he was with talking to a mouse that was running up and down his tattered sleeve.

I rubbed at my face again to wake myself up, and tried to comb some of the tangles out of my greasy hair with my fingers, more self-conscious of how gross I was now that I was traveling with someone. The wizard wouldn't notice or care, of course, but I was still uncomfortable.

We had a meager breakfast of leftover berries and roots. My stomach rumbled painfully, and I tried to ignore it; this was better than nothing, after all, yet I was starting to understand why Radagast was so thin. "Let us move on," the wizard said briskly. "Time is of the essence." I nodded wearily, packing up my things and clambering up onto Poppy's back.

The day passed in a dull, if companionable, silence. Poppy carried us at a faster pace than before, though we still covered an infuriatingly short distance by nightfall. I was restless; I'd never traveled this slowly in my life, accustomed as I was to driving eighty miles an hour on the interstate.

The next day was much the same. Radagast and I didn't talk all that often, but he seemed to grow more comfortable answering my questions when I asked them, and no longer jumped in the saddle or got flustered when I addressed him. We had settled into a kind of awkward routine; if Radagast vastly preferred to travel alone, at least he didn't show it often, and if I still cried myself to sleep at night, I managed to hide it well enough from him.

On the fourth morning after setting out with Radagast, the wizard turned in the saddle and offered me a rare smile, his eyes crinkling merrily under the floppy brim of his hat. "The Last Homely House is just beyond those hills," he said, pointing over Poppy's head in the distance. "We will reach Rivendell by midday."

"Really?" I gasped. I craned my neck to try and see over the wizard's bony shoulders, but I didn't see anything. The land had grown greener and rockier as we'd traveled, with wide patches of leafy trees, small cliffs and steep valleys cutting abruptly into the hills. Still, I didn't see any signs of elves or homely houses.

"In fact," Radagast added after a moment, "one of Lord Elrond's patrols rides out to meet us even now."

I couldn't see anyone approaching, but I nodded, trusting my traveling companion's intuition. We continued riding in silence, though I kept shifting excitedly in the saddle, unable to sit still. The morning slipped by, maddeningly slowly. Then—

"Radagast the Brown!" cried a sudden voice.

 _"Gah!"_ I jumped forward so violently that my forehead collided with the wizard's bony shoulder blades. A horse and rider were approaching us, moving so quietly and swiftly that the stranger was level with us in seconds, his gray horse falling into step alongside Poppy before I even knew what was happening.

"Back so soon, my friend? I didn't know you had missed us so much!" The rider laughed, making me jump again. His voice was clear, deep and musical, his laugh washing over me like a bucket of ice water. I stared at him, slack-jawed, as our horses trotted along in tandem. _An elf, oh my gosh, he's an elf!_ Long sunlight-colored hair flowed like water down his back, his face framed by slender, pointed ears. I couldn't believe how _inhuman_ he was; the actors from the _Lord of the Rings_ movie seemed ridiculous in comparison—he was regal and fey and entirely unearthly, and those _eyes—_

Radagast pinched the bridge of his long nose. "Hello again, Lanion." Poppy came to a halt, as did the elf's horse. I heard the wizard sigh heavily.

"When you last passed through these hills you scarcely had time to say hello!" the elf exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in mock offense. "And now you have returned to us, not two weeks later."

"Well, hmm, yes. A rather _unexpected_ situation has called me back to Rivendell," the wizard replied, gesturing mildly to me. Lanion turned to look at me, and I froze under his gaze.

"Oh—uh, howdy," I croaked, giving the elf a stupid little wave. _Did I really just say howdy, oh my_ God, _Bee, what is your problem—_

"Hello, miss." Lanion extended his hand to me, looking curious.

"Hi," I said stupidly, and felt myself flush as I realized I'd greeted him twice. Forcing my eyes back into my head, I grabbed his proffered hand and shook it heartily. The elf, who I realized too late had been moving to kiss the back of my hand, not shake it, looked quite taken aback. "Oh. Uh, sorry. I…I'm Bee," I muttered, clearing my throat. "Smith. Um, Beatrice Smith, I mean." I wished quite desperately that the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

"So you are the unexpected 'situation' that brings dear old Radagast the Brown back to us," Lanion said, looking rather confused by my behavior but mercifully ignoring my embarrassment. "Where did the wizard find you?" he asked. "Radagast has been known to have odd traveling companions, but they most often have four legs and a tail." He flashed the wizard a mocking, dazzling grin and I felt rather faint.

"I—" I cleared my throat again, finding it impossible to look the elf in the eyes. "I need to speak to Lord Elrond," I managed. "It's really important."

Lanion glanced quizzically at Radagast, who nodded in confirmation of my words. "Very well, then. I am certain you have quite the story to tell."

As Radagast and I dismounted Poppy—thankfully I managed to do it without falling into the grass—the wizard and elf continued to talk, this time slipping into another language. _Elvish,_ I realized, my excitement outweighing my embarrassment as I tried to listen in. The language was achingly beautiful; I'd never known spoken words could sound like this. I was overcome by the desire to hear Lanion sing; what must elvish music sound like, the melodies and lyrics and instruments—

"Beatrice?" Radagast interrupted my thoughts, motioning for me to gather my supplies from his saddlebags. I jumped, realizing that I'd been staring vacantly at Lanion like a lovesick puppy.

"Sorry," I muttered, feeling heat creep into my face.

"You've not seen an elf before," Radagast said as I grabbed my things from Poppy's bags.

I winced, knowing that if even spacey, bumbling Radagast had seen my awkwardness around Lanion, there was no way the elf hadn't noticed too. "There aren't any elves where I'm from," I stammered. "They don't exist back home. I didn't know they'd be so…" I gestured helplessly into the air.

"That they are," Radagast rolled his eyes as he fussily rearranged his supplies in the saddlebags.

"Are you ready, Miss Smith?" Lanion asked, transferring some of my bulkier items onto his horse.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Yeah. Just a sec." Suddenly feeling reluctant, I turned back to Radagast. "So you're leaving?"

The wizard nodded. "You are in safe hands with Lanion. Now, I must return to my home with all haste. Tell Lord Elrond of everything that has transpired since you arrived here. It is imperative that he knows of Saruman's treachery. You may trust him."

"Okay," I said. "I just…I don't know how to thank you for helping me."

Radagast looked startled. "Oh, there is no need—"

"Yes there is," I insisted. "You saved my life, and I meant it when I said I'd pay you back. I'll find some way to make it up to you." Before I could think about my words, I added: "I'll see you again to pay you back before I return to Texas, okay? I promise."

"My dear, there is no debt," Radagast insisted, looking uncomfortable. His hands twitched as he picked at a loose thread on his cloak. "Do not trouble yourself—"

I hugged the wizard tightly, cutting off his stammering. "I'll miss you, Radagast the Brown," I said, my voice muffled by his ratty old cloak.

Radagast patted my head awkwardly, as though I were one of the mice or rabbits he'd spoken to in the wilderness, and hastily freed himself. I gave a sniffling laugh. "Away with you, now." He shooed me in Lanion's direction. "Hurry off."

"Bye, then," I managed. "Oh! And tell Poppy goodbye, too!"

I was so preoccupied with my farewells that I forgot to be embarrassed when Lanion took my hand and helped me onto the back of his horse. Before I knew it the elf and I were cantering away. I twisted in the saddle to see Radagast mounting his horse; he looked oddly somber as we rode away, a solitary figure swallowed up by a windswept brown cloak.

"Radagast is quite the character, isn't he?" the elf said after a while. I nodded hesitantly, my shyness returning in full force as I awkwardly adjusted my grip on Lanion's torso. My face was burning. I hadn't showered in goodness knew how many days, I was sweaty and dirty and bruised, and I was pretty sure there were pieces of grass in my hair—and now I was awkwardly pressed up against the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. This had to be a nightmare, it _had_ to be— _just kill me now, honestly_ — "What I am most curious about, however," the elf added, "is the mortal woman who convinced him to travel with her."

"Convinced?" I mumbled. "I didn't _convince_ him to do anything. He _offered_ to take me to Rivendell."

"Of course," Lanion said, though he sounded skeptical. "Yet all the same, I have never known Radagast the Brown to take on such a traveling companion."

We rode in silence—an uncomfortable silence, at least on my part. I greatly preferred traveling with Radagast, even with his strange quirks and mannerisms. I felt starstruck around Lanion; he was just so _unnatural_. Even his horse was just a little too graceful, a little too silent, and it seemed to respond to the elf's wishes even more innately than Poppy had to Radagast's commands.

Relief washed over me when we finally came to a rugged little path that wound down the side of a hill, descending into a wooded valley.

"Welcome to Rivendell," Lanion said, turning in the saddle to smile back at me. My breath hitched—seeing the elf's smile was like staring into the sun—but then I looked ahead and I wasn't sure my lungs would ever work properly again.

Rivendell was beautiful. Achingly beautiful. Like the elves themselves, the movie didn't do it justice in the slightest. Lanion's horse carried us down into the broad valley, and I felt myself overwhelmed with what I could only describe as _magic._ The air itself smelled sweet and clean and renewing, and the sunlight beamed down across the treetops below us in a brighter shade of gold than I'd ever seen. Judging by the faraway sound of rushing water, a river was flowing through the valley, too, mingling with birdsong and the wind in the grass and, just on the edge of hearing, the sound of voices. They were _elves'_ voices, they had to be—and they were singing. I leaned desperately over Lanion's shoulder, all embarrassment forgotten, as I strained to hear more, but nothing sounded familiar. The instruments were far away still, but I didn't think they sounded like violins. At least, not like violins I was used to. Harps I recognized, and voices singing in the same ethereal language Lanion and Radagast had spoken in earlier today; one of the voices burst into laughter and my heart skipped a beat. This was too much; I didn't have enough eyes and ears to take it all in.

"Miss Smith?"

I jumped. "Huh?"

Lanion didn't turn around, but I could tell he was stifling a laugh. "I _said,_ Miss, that you must wish for a bath, and perhaps a meal, before being granted an audience with Lord Elrond. Am I not mistaken?"

"Oh, right," I stammered. "I mean…I don't want to impose," I added uncomfortably. I had forgotten all about Elrond. I hadn't even realized that Lanion's horse had already led us across a beautiful stone bridge at the bottom of the valley, and we were now in some kind of beautiful courtyard, filled with gardens, fountains, and delicate archways.

"Nonsense, it is no trouble. A maidservant will gladly see to a bath and a hot meal for you." Lanion turned and helped me dismount; despite his grace I still managed to catch my sandal in the stirrups and nearly elbowed him in the face as I stumbled down from the horse. He, gracefully, chose not to comment on this new embarrassment, though his mouth twitched with another suppressed laugh. "Well, Miss Smith?"

I nodded faintly, still in shock at where I was. Honestly, a bath sounded more amazing than anything else in the world, and I hadn't had a hot meal in ages. I couldn't even imagine how comfortable the rooms here would be, and how nice it might be to sleep on something other than a stolen sleeping bag or a filthy straw bed in a prison cell in Isengard.

 _Isengard..._ "No, no, I need to speak to Elrond _now!_ " I exclaimed, images coming to my mind unbidden of Gandalf trapped on the roof of Orthanc, of Saruman's collection of weaponry, the fiery shape of that _eye_ in his crystal ball thing— "It can't wait, it just _can't._ Please, you have to take me to him now— _"_

"Are you certain, Miss?" Lanion raised an eyebrow at me.

"Yes, _yes!"_ I nearly screamed, pulling helplessly at the roots of my tangled hair. "I _know_ I'm all gross and whatnot, I don't give a crap! _When can I see Elrond?"_

"You may see him now, in fact," a voice said from behind me.

I froze, feeling the blood rush to my face. _Of course._ Of _course_ this would happen. "Lord Elrond!" Lanion exclaimed. He bowed slightly to the elf approaching us, who nodded his head in return. I wondered if I should bow too, or curtsey or something, but the moment seemed to have passed as I stood there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. Lanion launched into rapid-fire Elvish, perhaps hoping to prevent me from speaking and embarrassing myself further. I caught the name Radagast several times, but nothing else.

"That will do, Lanion," Elrond said after a moment, nodding sagely. "Tend to your horse, and to our guest's belongings. I need you patrolling our eastern borders again before nightfall."

"Of course," Lanion bowed again, and turned to me. "Well met, then, Miss Smith. I hope to learn more of your story upon our next meeting." He gave me another dazzling smile. Unable to find my voice, I gave him a pathetic little wave as he led his horse away.

"Now," Elrond said. "I understand that you need to speak with me?"

"I...yes, sir," I stammered. "I mean, if that's alright. I didn't mean to-"

Elrond raised an eyebrow slightly, but I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or amused. "My dear, I distinctly heard you say that you do not give a...well, it matters not. Come with me to my library, and we shall speak."

I nodded, my face burning, and allowed myself to be led through the courtyard by the Lord of Rivendell.


	11. Chapter 10

Hey everyone! Thanks for your patience, and your lovely reviews! You guys are all so kind, and your support and constructive criticism are great motivators for me to stop being so lazy and get back to writing. Enjoy the chapter, and I'll have the next one out soon (ish)!

* * *

Chapter 10

I followed Elrond in a bit of a daze, struggling to keep up with his swift pace while trying to look at everything around me all at once. We walked down a meandering hall lined with white stone, broad windows opening onto tree-lined paths and courtyards. As before, the sounds of rushing water and far-off music echoed faintly all around, and my head spun as I tried to take it all in.

I wondered, briefly, if I was dreaming.

Here and there other elves walked by, or sat and talked to one another, their laughter bouncing merrily through the gardens and halls. I stared in fascination at them, my jaw open slightly—I couldn't help it, they were just so inhuman. But when they turned to stare curiously back at me, I looked away nervously, unable to quite meet their eyes. Like Elrond, they were all dressed in flowing robes, with high cheekbones, flawless skin, and model-like hair. I winced and fiddled with my own hair in embarrassment as we walked—only to find a piece of grass stuck in the greasy tangles around my shoulders. I ducked my head and willed Elrond to walk faster.

"Lanion said that your name was Smith," the elf said kindly, finally opening a tall wooden door at the end of the hall and beckoning me inside.

"Uh, yes sir. I'm Beatrice Smith," I replied hesitantly, glancing around curiously as I walked inside. This wasn't at all what I'd expected from an elvish library. It was cluttered, cramped, and far less airy than anything I'd seen of Rivendell so far, but I liked it immediately. Leather-bound books were stacked perilously along the walls, and scrolls dotted with thick wax seals overflowed from the drawers of several wooden writing desks. Sunlight streamed in, heavy and gold, through a row of windows lining the low ceiling, and the whole room smelled pleasantly of paper and dust.

"So then—Beatrice Smith," Elrond repeated, sitting down behind a desk and motioning for me to take a seat opposite him. "That is a rather unusual name."

"Oh, um, it's nothing out of the ordinary where I'm from," I assured him, perching awkwardly on the edge of a chair.

"And where _are_ you from, Miss Smith?"

I hesitated, fiddling with my tangled hair again. "Um…well…how much did Lanion tell you?"

"A few details," Elrond replied vaguely, "though I would rather hear your own account of the tale. What, then, was this news that could not wait?"

I felt myself flush, embarrassed at his mention of my panicked outburst at Lanion in the courtyard earlier. "Right, well…" I started, then broke off. "You're not going to believe me," I warned him.

"I believe I can judge for myself the veracity of your words, Miss Smith. Go on."

I nodded, took another deep breath, and began to tell him everything. Talking to Elrond was a lot more difficult than talking to Radagast. As I stammered out my story, I found myself barely able to even look Elrond in the eyes. His stern gaze was unsettling; it was so oddly inhuman, young and old all at once, both attractive and intimidating. I didn't remember the actor in the movie being this hot— _why does he have to be hot? It's Lanion all over again, damn it._

Like Radagast, Elrond let me tell my story uninterrupted. His face, however, was far more expressive than the spacey wizard's had been, and his eyebrows arched higher and higher toward his hairline each time I dared a glance at him, incredulity clear on his face. Whatever he had been expecting to hear, it apparently hadn't involved other worlds and helicopters. I couldn't exactly blame him.

Finally, I finished explaining my meeting with Radagast and running into Lanion. "And now I don't know what to do," I finished in a rush, "because Gandalf is probably still trapped in Isengard, and I have no idea how to get home, and Saruman is probably reading about the future of Middle Earth right now, and if he figures out how to use all the weapons he's stolen, then—"

"Yes, I believe I understand you," Elrond said, holding up a hand to stop my rambling. He studied me for a long moment with a new expression, the fatherly sort of kindness replaced by something chilly. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, dropping my gaze to the ground. I couldn't help but wonder, as I had done with Gandalf, how I must appear to someone like Elrond. Probably like a homeless person, or a basket case, considering the state of my clothes and hair, and the bruises and dirt on my face, not to mention my wild, rambling words. "That is quite a story, Miss Smith," the elf said at last.

I winced.

"You were correct that I would have… _difficulty_ believing your tale," he continued. His voice was mild, but his words were cold, and seemed to hold a warning. "Saruman the White has been an ally of Imladris for ages uncounted; to suggest that he has betrayed us—betrayed one of his own Order—is a serious accusation indeed."

"I know it is," I said urgently. "But it's true. I _promise._ Please, if you don't believe me, something terrible might happen to Gandalf, and Saruman might—"

"Calm yourself, Miss," Elrond said mildly, holding up a hand again.

I shook my head desperately. _"You have to believe me,"_ I exclaimed. "I don't know if Gandalf believed me, when I tried to warn him, but Radagast did—he can tell you, if you reach out to him again—"

"Your second claim is even more absurd," Elrond spoke over me evenly. "You say that Saruman has been gathering weapons from your homeland over the course of many years, through his possession of one of the palantíri." I nodded emphatically, though the elf continued before I could speak. "How many of these weapons has he gathered, and what exactly is their nature?" he asked. "How many soldiers could be armed with these tools? And is it likely that he might create more weapons of a similar capacity in Isengard's forges?"

"Does this mean you believe me?"

"Answer the questions, if you please, Miss Smith."

Unsettled by the icy calm in his voice, I launched into a hasty description of everything I knew about Saruman's guns, grenades, pipe bombs, and drones, thinking back to every weapon and machine stockpiled in those horrible storerooms. I tried to force down the discomfort that came with the memories of that place, but it didn't work; my stomach twisted, and my blood felt cold. _Please believe me, please,_ I thought feverishly, biting the inside of my cheek as I spoke to Elrond, who had methodically unfurled a blank scroll of parchment and begun to make notes of my descriptions. A moment of unbearable silence followed my words, in which Elrond's quill continued to scratch elegantly against the parchment. I craned my neck slightly to peer at his words, but they were in a strange, flowing alphabet I didn't recognize.

"Your third claim," Elrond said finally, settling down his quill with a small flourish, "is the most outlandish of all. You say that all of our history, the entirety of Middle Earth, is written down in _books_ in your homeland. Who, then, was the author of these texts, that he came to know of our world? An elf? A wizard?"

"Um, his name was Tolkien," I said hesitantly. "He was a professor, I think. He wasn't a wizard or anything—he was human. The stories he wrote were fiction," I explained. " Made up, you know, for entertainment. Everybody where I'm from thinks Middle Earth doesn't exist, and the story with Gandalf and the hobbits and the ring is just fantasy."

"The ring?" Elrond repeated sharply. I clapped a hand over my mouth. "You have read this story," he said, his tone unreadable, and I winced, looking back down at my knees. "You have read the future of Middle Earth. It is written in a book from another land, penned by a _professor,_ for _entertainment_." His voice was flat, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was saying, and was hoping I would correct him.

"I've, uh, read a bit of the story," I admitted, deciding to leave the concept of _movies_ for another day; as far as Elrond needed to know, seeing a bit of the movie was the same as reading a bit of the book. "I don't remember much, though. Honest. And I never got to the end. Believe me, if I'd known it was real, I'd have read more," I said, giving a humorless smile that Elrond did not return.

"Indeed," he said slowly. He was still studying me, as though trying to put together the pieces of a particularly troublesome puzzle. "Did you mention the ring to Saruman?"

"No, of course not!" I exclaimed quickly. "I'm not stupid."

Elrond sighed and nodded, then sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and rested his forehead against his hands. A long moment passed. The comforting, cozy nature of the room had become stifling, and I fidgeted in my seat. Finally, Elrond met my eyes again. "I believe you, Miss Smith."

I jumped up in my chair. "You do?" I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"You will forgive my harshness, I hope. You have been honest with me from the beginning, yet I confess I did not wish to believe your words."

"It's okay," I told him, smiling hesitantly. "I didn't want to believe any of it either."

Elrond's eyes turned to one of the low windows, where a sliver of dusty blue sky was visible between the trees. He sighed again. "This news bodes ill for many, Miss. Our list of allies has grown thin. Yes, your story is outlandish, but it seems that I must trust you. After all, your story is corroborated by Lanion's words, which themselves come from Radagast the Brown. Eccentric the wizard may be, but I would be a fool to ignore Radagast's wisdom, or to have reservations about those in whom he has placed his trust. The friendship of an Istari is not earned without reason. Would that we could trust all wizards thus," he added darkly. "And to think that all of this occurred under the very noses of the White Council…"

I didn't know what the White Council was, or what Istari meant, but I nodded. "So then," I said hesitantly. "What are we going to do?"

"We?" Elrond repeated, looking surprised.

"Yes!" I exclaimed. "How are we going to save Gandalf, and stop Saruman from reading that book and using his weapons? We need to do something now, the more time we spend sitting here, the likelier it is that Saruman will have-"

" _We_ are not going to do anything, Miss Smith," Elrond said, raising a hand for silence once again. "Forgive me, but I cannot see that you will be able to help any further."

"You mean there's nothing I can do? But it's _my_ fault that Saruman has that book. And my fault that I couldn't warn Gandalf in time, my fault that I left him in Isengard. There must be some way I can help—I _have_ to try, I can't just sit here and do nothing!"

" _What_ , then, do you propose to do?" Elrond asked pointedly.

I deflated at his tone, my fervor dwindling as quickly as it had come. "I…I don't know," I stammered. I felt stupid. What _could_ I do, after all? Run back to Isengard and get captured again? I was just a violinist. I wasn't even supposed to _be_ here, anyway. None of this was supposed to be happening! "Is there anything that can be done?" I asked helplessly, feeling overwhelmed.

"Rest assured, Miss," Elrond said, "what help I can offer to Gandalf will be given, though I fear that it will likely not be enough. I will speak to those who remain loyal to Imladris, increase the security around our borders, and gather our forces as best I can. But we are not equipped to go to war, and if what you say about the weapons in Saruman's possession is true, Imladris is not likely to outlast an attack from Isengard."

"Imladris?"

"That is its Elvish name. You would call it Rivendell, in the Westron tongue."

"Westron?"

Elrond closed his eyes, as though fighting back a heavy sigh. "The language we are speaking now, Miss."

"Right. Sorry." I felt myself flush—I was more out of my element than I thought.

The elf seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Beatrice Smith, you have done very well to bring all this news to me. And at great peril to yourself, judging by your tale. For a young woman with so little understanding of Middle Earth, you have done unthinkably well; I daresay many a seasoned warrior would not have had such success. But you know very little of Middle Earth. You are no warrior, nor spy, nor diplomat. I will likely call upon you again to learn more about the technology Saruman has summoned to Isengard from your world, but I cannot see that you will be able to help any further in stopping him."

My heart sank at his words. He was right, I knew, but that didn't change the magnitude of the problems I had caused, or the helplessness I felt.

"However, there is one thing I would ask of you, Miss Smith," he added.

"Really? What?" I perked up again.

"I must insist that you keep whatever knowledge you possess of these books a secret. Do not tell anyone, not even me, what you have read, or even what you guess, about the future of our world. I fear that such knowledge would serve only to lead us astray, despite our best intentions."

"Oh." My heart sank again. "Of course. I understand."

"Now, Miss Smith, I suggest you rest. You have had a difficult journey here, and are more than welcome to stay in our guest quarters. Lanion will have seen to your belongings." Elrond stood up, indicating our conversation was over.

"Wait, um, sir, " I hesitated. The question had been burning in the back of my mind ever since I'd arrived in Rivendell, and now that the time had come to ask it, I could barely get the words out for fear of what Elrond would say. "Is there...is there anything you can do to help me get back home?" Elrond raised his eyebrows. " _Please,_ " I said. "Gandalf said he didn't think he could help me, but I was just hoping, maybe _you_ might be able to do something. Or maybe you know of something I could do, somewhere I could go to figure out how to get back…?"

The elf signed, and I knew what he was going to say before he said it. "I am afraid I cannot do what you ask, Miss Smith. I possess no such magical abilities, and if Gandalf cannot help you, I know of no others who might be able to do so."

Tears stung behind my eyes. It had been quite a stretch, I 'd known that. I didn't know why I'd gotten my hopes up at all. It was just the magic of this place, a secret haven of elves...it had been easy to think that anything might be possible here.

"Miss Smith?" Elrond said gently, clearly troubled by my silence.

"It's okay," I mumbled, though hardly any sound came out. "I underst..." I broke off and looked away, not trusting myself to speak around the lump in my throat. I didn't want to cry in front of Elrond. I just couldn't. I had already cried in front of nearly everyone I'd met in Middle Earth. I was pathetic. This thought made me even more miserable, and I covered my eyes with a shaking hand. "I'm sorry," I managed, taking a deep breath and steadying myself. "I'm _sorry…_ " My voice broke.

"Why do you apologize?" the elf lord asked, shaking his head. "You have no reason to be sorry." He approached and rested a hand on my shoulder comfortingly, though his face was still stern. "Nor do you have reason to lose hope. If I am to glean anything from your tale, it is that nothing in Middle Earth is certain. The world is changing, and the guidelines that govern us seem to no longer be set in stone. You see, Miss Smith?" He sighed, and strode to one of the low windows. His eyes were far away. "I can no longer say what is possible, or what is not. You may yet find a way home."

I nodded, taking a deep breath and swallowing bitterly. "Thank you, sir."

"Well, Miss Smith, I believe we have spoken enough for the present. You are exhausted, and I shall not interrogate you further until you have rested and eaten."

At his words, my shoulders slumped, as though my body hadn't realized how tired I was until he'd pointed it out. "That sounds wonderful," I admitted.

Elrond opened the heavy wooden door of his library, gesturing politely for me to walk through. "Lanion will have alerted the maidservants of your arrival," he said. "I imagine a room will have been readied for you by now in the northwest wing. I will show you the way—quickly, if you do not mind—and then I have a great deal to accomplish."

"Thank you," I said earnestly, following Elrond down the hall. My whole body ached with weariness, and I followed the elf rather woodenly, hardly taking in my surroundings anymore.

"Here you are, Miss Smith," Elrond said, gesturing elegantly down a hall slightly narrower than the rest. One of the doors at the end of the hall stood open, and it was there that the elf was pointing. "Do not hesitate to alert one of the maidservants if you require anything else," he said kindly, and placed a hand on my shoulder. "As I said before, I am afraid I will likely call on you within the next few days, to ask you further questions about your journey here."

"Okay," I said reluctantly. "If there's anything else I can do to help…"

"Of course, Miss Smith."

With that, the elf swept away briskly, his footsteps silent in the empty hall. I sighed, suddenly exhausted beyond words, and made my way to the open door at the end of the hall.

I hadn't been sure what to expect, but it wasn't this. A low, canopied bed occupied the center of a large but cozy room, pale blue drapes hanging delicately above the bed's frame. The ceiling was low and made of up gently arching slats of gray wood, which were adorned with faint carvings of leaves and blossoms. Blue-gray curtains framed a little window, out of which tree branches swayed lazily in the wind. An empty metal washtub sat in the corner, next to a pile of folded white blankets.

It was all so beautiful and calming and _homey—_ I wouldn't have believed it was for me, if my dirt-covered bags and violin case weren't stacked under the window. I sat down on the corner of the mattress, intending to unpack my things, but instead I fell back onto the bed with a deep sigh, and was asleep before my head hit the pillows.


End file.
